Illusion
by Ideographer
Summary: SYOT. Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark never existed, and the 75th Annual Hunger Games goes on as it was planned to. "The box was unimpressive to say the least, and to the unknowing bystander it might not seem to suggest any form of power. But to those who knew, those who had seen, it was the most terrifying show of authority that could ever be beholded." -UPDATES WEDNESDAYS-
1. Prologue

The sky was blue outside, beautiful in the eyes of those who cared to look. Clouds had disappeared on this warm summer's day, permitting the sun to spill its light over the glowing vibrant city of the Capitol.

Today, it seemed, was fortuitous for its weather conditions- but Coriolanus Snow was disinterested in this show of natural aesthetics he was aware waited outside this darkened room, or even the artificial aesthetics he knew lay in the city below. His focus lay on the box that sat in front of him.

Small, worn, rusting iron bands wrapped across its distressed and scratched oak surface; the box was unimpressive to say the least, and to the unknowing bystander it might not seem to suggest any form of power. But to those who knew, those who had _seen_, it was the most terrifying show of authority that could ever be beholded.

This box held the Quarter Quell papers. Old, faded, written in a looping copperplate script, the many hundreds of pieces of paper arranged in neat, precise order had been written by the previous President of Panem. Coriolanus, although he never voiced such admittances, was indebted to the last President, a man of strong convictions and even stronger armies. He had led Panem through the Dark Days, he had instated the Hunger Games, and he had written these slips, detailing the Quarter Quells to come, for what could potentially stretch according to the box for millenia. Coriolanus had no belief that the Hunger Games would last this long, but the knowledge that this box could sustain that many Quarter Quells, that many Hunger Games, gave him the confidence to continue, to innovate, to bring the Capitol to new heights. The thrumming of the city around him was proof of this- the glass of the towering buildings around him was right now pulsing with light, glowing and glittering, rippling with colour. The Capitol was a glittering beacon of innovation.

But some areas could not be innovated- the Districts, who opposed everything to do with the Capitol(and with reason, Coriolanus could silently admit) were a volatile element to the President's perfect city, the one piece of his puzzle that continued to evade full control. The Capitol was his, that was certain- the citizens of the central city would believe whatever he and his propaganda men placed on television. But the Districts? They hated the Capitol, they hated everything to do with Coriolanus Snow, and the only way he could control them was with a primitive show of power, of oppression.

The Hunger Games.

The volatile element to control the volatile element. The violence to prevent violence. The fear to control fear. It had worked for 74 years. It would work for one more, and one more, and for many more Games to come.

It was time for a Quarter Quell.

Coriolanus stood, and faced the curtain separating him from the cameras. He nodded to a lackey- they took the old, worn oak box, and slid through the curtains. A cameraman gave him a signal- two fingers. _Two minutes_.

He took a breath. Composing himself before a speech was a normal occurence- he was a born public speaker, experienced and a complete natural, but that did not still his old reflexes before he would face the cameras. Butterflies flew through his stomach, his heart clenched into a tiny ball, the lump in his throat reappeared as it always did.

Coriolanus willed those reflexes away- he had far greater things to feel worried over than a speech.

The cameraman held up one finger. Around him, men and women were bustling- a few were tending to his appearance, some last-minute tweaks of makeup that were completely unneeded but apparently necessary to the fashion-conscious Capitolians to implement. He waved them away and obediently they fell back, letting him walk slowly to the curtain through the gloom of backstage. The lackey came back through the curtain, box now gone from his hands- he nodded to Coriolanus briefly and reverently before rushing away to the bank of camera feeds that the majority of the room was working on. The cameraman held a hand lightly to the slim and high-tech earphones resting on his head, before beckoning Coriolanus softly. _Go out_.

So Coriolanus walked to the curtain, took a deep breath-

And President Snow emerged into the afternoon sun. A box sat on an opulently dressed lectern in front of the President, decorated with the seal of the Capitol. Snow took three short and precise steps to it, and began.

"This year we honour this third Quarter Quell of the annual Hunger Games." He said slowly and deliberately, looking directly into the camera, before switching his attention to the box. Snow knew that the cameras to his left, right, and behind were focusing in on the box as he opened it, as he took out the third in the long, long row of yellowed envelopes. It had already been opened, but nobody need know that. Snow opened the envelope, deliberately slowly, deliberately carefully, and removed its contents. Most of these envelopes had already been opened and read- but Snow had not changed a one. Not yet, anyway. He would be certain to if he needed, but so far they were all perfectly sufficient Quarter Quells. He read the yellowed note slowly and powerfully.

"To remind the rebels that the Capitol is the most and only powerful force in Panem," He announced, saying the words he had rehearsed so many times, "The citizens of the Capitol shall control this year's Hunger Games, including choosing the final victor between the last two tributes."

And the camera's red lights faded, the viewers down below from the balcony cheered and screamed. President Snow turned and left the lectern, but not before shutting the box and ensuring it had been taken care of.

There would be many more Quarter Quells to come, he was certain of that-and this year's was to be one of them.

* * *

**This fic is to get over the challenges of NaNoWriMo by easing myself into a scheduled writing system. After a full month of nonstop writing, what I need is to slow down but not stop entirely, and this is a project I've had in the back of my mind for about a year.**

**To give a bit of exposition here, this is an AU. Katniss and Peeta never existed, and although I have an alternate timeline for who won the 74th in their stead, it's probably not going to come up much.**

**This **_**does **_**have a plot. In fact, it has multiple plots, all fairly flexible. The tribute chosen to win for this(from a random number picker) will then be carefully placed into one of these plots, which will be then changed to fit this character ideally, and the other characters will be woven into that plot to suit themselves as well. I don't have a definitive ending in sight until I have the tributes in front of me and ready to go- but what I do know is this.**

**I need 24 tributes and as many Capitolians as possible. Here's the deal- you can only submit two tributes, but as many Capitol citizens as you wish. Some of those Capitol citizens may have a very important part, so it is not a consolation prize to not getting a tribute in to submit a Capitolian-in fact, the Capitolian may in the end be more important than some of the tributes.**

**Saying that, all tributes picked will be treated with the utmost care regarding their strengths and weaknesses. As long as they're a well-defined character, their characters will be upheld to and supported as well as possible- and all tributes will get a POV.**

**This SYOT will likely not uphold to the typical system of chapters that most SYOTs have(all the reapings one after another in chronological order, etc). It's something of my own experiment in the SYOT format, and I would be humbled to have you and your tributes join me in the alternative plot of the 75th Annual Hunger Games.**

**And may the odds be **_**ever **_**in your favour.**

* * *

SUBMISSION FORMS

* * *

TRIBUTE SUBMISSION FORM

**(NOTE: Please submit through PM. Guest review submissions are tolerated but may not be seen as easily and thus are less likely to be chosen)**

Full Name:

Age:

District Preferences(First choice is taken into account but the others are in case that district has already been chosen):

Gender:

Appearance(Please be detailed):

Family Members:

Backstory:

Personality(The more detailed the better):

Strengths:

Weaknesses:

Why would this tribute win the Hunger Games:

Why would this tribute die in the Hunger Games:

Is this tribute likely to make alliances? And with what kind of person/people?:

Would you be open to having your tribute in a relationship:

What's the tribute's opinion of the Capitol:

* * *

CAPITOLIAN SUBMISSION FORM

**(NOTE: Please submit through PM. Guest review submissions are tolerated but may not be seen as easily and thus are less likely to be chosen)**

Full Name(Please note that Greek and Roman names are more likely to be

found in the Capitol):

Age:

Gender:

Occupation:

Personality(Please be detailed):

Appearance(Please be detailed but feel free to go wild on this- Capitolians are nuts with their styles!):

Their opinion of Hunger Games and Districts:

* * *

**Thank you in advance for any tributes, Capitolians, critiques, and just reading this fic! I look forward to seeing you all in the future.**


	2. One Month To Go

The office was bright and clean, with banks of bright, shiny computers in circles around the room. Everything in the office was circular, and everything in the office was some shade of bright, neon red- from the shiny red, circular digital clock on one of the deep crimson walls, to the glittering scarlet , circular tiles on the floor, to even the slim, steely red circular computers that sat attractively on the circular desks. In fact, the one aspect of the office that was not circular was the office, which was a plain rectangle- but in Cherry's opinion, the numbers of circles that had been introduced to the room more than made up for it.

Cherry sat in the middle of the room, and in the middle of the many circular tables that were in the room. This was deliberate- every time one of the many writers sitting on the banks of desks looked up, what they would see was her, waiting impatiently for their articles, and that would give them motivation to continue on. To her knowledge, Cherry was the only person who used this system of scare tactics to get her articles in on time; but she couldn't imagine why anybody else didn't.

Although it might have something to do with how she got through staff like she got through hats.

Cherry Haven was the Editor-In-Chief of C.H.E.W magazine, one of the most well-renowned magazines in the Capitol. C.H.E.W magazine was a fairly new addition to the masses of media that existed throughout the Capitol, but it had swiftly become its most beloved, for many reasons- most of all being its coverage of the Hunger Games. It was one of the most difficult things in the Capitol to cover, and most magazines just let the Capitol do its work unfettered, as they found it too hard to get any information outside of the Training Centre and Arena that was not already in circulation. If they were lucky, they could get hold of a few old victors to interview, and that was the limit of their involvement in the Hunger Games.

But every year, Cherry Haven's Eventual World magazine had all the information available on the Hunger Games- from the most likely winners to what the Arena will probably be; and, the holy grail for any magazine, interviews of the tributes. C.H.E.W was a year-round delight to much of its readers, renowned for "chewing out" any celebrities it interviewed, but when the Hunger Games rolled around, the sales of C.H.E.W magazine went through the roof. Cherry knew this, and unfortunately so did her staff- because when it did get announced, Cherry became even more insufferable than usual.

"Hey!" A voice screamed across the office. The soft murmuring of the staff dwindled to silence. The front circle of the multiple desk circles looked more tired than afraid, but most of the other, outlying circles had the expressions of rabbits stuck in some rather red headlights. As the silence rolled through the office, Cherry got to her feet, blowing a bubble with her gum- slowly, to complete the severe look on her face. When the gum had popped, she began to speak, fast-paced and painfully pitched to break the staff's eardrums.

"Who in the _hell_ wrote this?!" She screamed, pointing to her lavish desk that sat in the centre of the room. On the desk sat one of the strange, circular monitors, with a text file open on its screen. She turned back to it, slamming her hands against her desk as she leant down to read it out.

"'The citizens of the Capitol shall control this year's Hunger Games, including choosing the final victor between the last two tributes'," She read out, her voice lowering in pitch down to its usual, harsh tones, that were quite unlike the high-pitched accents of most Capitolians. "I mean, who writes this garbage? Why are you working for me?!" Cherry said, smacking her carefully-manicured hands against the monitor. The monitor shuddered but remained in place- one of the more brave journalists had a few months ago grown tired of her wages being lowered to pay for the almost-daily breakage of Cherry's monitor, and had bolted it to the desk one morning.

As Cherry fumed, one of the journalists on the front circle spoke up, looking weary.

"That's not something we wrote, Cherry. It's what President Snow said last week, remember?"

Cherry rounded on them, chewing her gum furiously.

"Well, _du-uh_!" She yelled angrily, flailing her arms in the air. "But it's a really horrible line! 'Including choosing'- I mean, it sounds like a damn nursery rhyme, not a Quarter Quell announcement! Gawd! It just sounds dumb!" She yelled, her drawling tones becoming coarser and sharper as she got more annoyed. The journalist she was directing her fury at seemed unconcerned- this was a normal occurrence. However, what she did next was a more frustrating thing than merely yelling at everyone in the near vicinity. She sat down heavily at her desk, placed her fingers on the touchscreen, and pulled her fingers inwards and away from the screen. A holograph generated itself in front of Cherry's hand, of a large 'screen' of text. She placed her hands to each side of it, pushed the screen inwards, compressing the text until it was the side of her hand. She acted 'screwing up' the hologram into a ball, before then sliding her hand under it, cupping it in her hand, and throwing it at the outer circle. The 'ball' of text sailed through the air, disappearing as it seemingly impacted with one of the male journalist's head. The journalist, who had been desperately keeping himself from hyperventilating throughout Cherry's yelling session, suddenly burst into tears and rushed from the room. Most of the journalists on the outer circle looked horrified, as they were the newer members of the magazine's writing team. The journalists on the inner circles, however, were unconcerned by the show of anger- if they had survived being in Cherry Haven's office this long, they were used to seeing people running from the office in hysterical tears.

Cherry herself just looked annoyed, and as she turned her concentration back to her screen she uttered a word that no journalist wanted to hear.

"Rewrite!" She screamed at the congregating of furiously tapping writers, popping her gum as she pulled out another holograph of someone's writing and began to push it around.

* * *

Demeter Hansen was spending her day trying to complete her portfolio.

Getting into the Hunger Game's elite team of stylists was a full-time job, as any stylist would point out. Demeter was working two full-time jobs, in that case- one as an aspiring stylist, and one as a real stylist. Currently, she was finishing off her work as an aspiring one, by compiling her final portfolio to be submitted to the head stylist of the Hunger Games.

Demeter was only a single year out of one of the most prestigious stylist colleges in the Capitol, at 19, but she had swiftly established herself as one of the strongest new candidates for the Hunger Game's stylist team. She had done that by many means- foremost of those becoming Cherry Haven's flatmate.

Living in the centre of the Capitol had always been Demeter's wish- all the popular stylists lived close to the very middle of the city, and so she had immediately moved from her home on the edge of the Capitol, next to the lakes that fringed it, over to the bustling and busy centre of the city. But someone who has spent the last few years of her life in a very expensive stylist college is not someone who has an awful lot of money-and so Demeter, at the age of 18, had to find someone to share a flat with. And the someone she had found was Cherry Haven, the up-and-coming journalist of C.H.E.W magazine.

Cherry, much to Demeter's surprise, hadn't had much money at that time, despite the success of her magazine at that point. A friend of Demeter's had introduced the two to each other, and immediately they had found each other to be more similar than they would ever like to admit.

They were both huge fashion fans- most of the Capitol was, but Demeter and Cherry found themselves being the unofficial trendsetters of the stylish flat tower that they inhabited. Cherry was someone that had a very distinctive style, in a city where everyone insisted on distinctive styles- prior amongst this was the buzz-cut that was her hairstyle, which was a bright, deep red all over. At the front of Cherry's forehead, a single, heavily hairsprayed curl framed her face perfectly. Demeter had helped Cherry a lot with her style(being a stylist, it was second nature to Demeter to do so), but Cherry's hair had been one of the things she hadn't dared to touch.

The hat collection that Cherry had amassed was impressive as well- Cherry was never seen without a hat, and she was never seen in public with the same hat. Demeter herself had helped with this collection, and although Cherry rarely thanked her sincerely, Demeter could tell that Cherry appreciated it.

Demeter herself kept a distinctive style- of course she did, she was a stylist. Neon green hair, reaching down to her waist, was the most evident aspect of her look. Green was central to her style- a green flower tattoo circled around her left eye, her skin had been augmented to be a milky green colour, and even her eyes had been surgically altered to be an impossibly dark green. The two flatmates were exceptionally well-kept at all times.

The second thing that Demeter and Cherry had in common was that they were clever, although they were rarely thought of as such. Although Cherry was a harsh, gum-popping, somewhat selfish person, and Demeter was a fairly air-headed, overly cheerful person with a penchant for talking all the time, the two of them were a lot cleverer than most of the Capitol believed them to be.

Cherry and Demeter had gotten where they were from several virtues- one was the ability to be completely unconcerned by anyone who stood in their way, and step over anyone who dared challenge them. That was a natural thing to do if you wanted to become a journalist, or a stylist- you had to have the drive to step over anyone who got in your way.

Secondly, they had between them gotten together an impressive number of contacts. If they wanted to get into the hottest party of the year, it was only a matter of calling a few people and pulling a few strings, and they would be there in hours.

It was because of this that Demeter even had this chance to submit her portfolio to the head stylist- most people never even got the chance to submit a portfolio until they were about a decade into being in a lower-level job working for the stylists. As a result, Demeter was taking this chance exceedingly seriously, and was working around the clock to perfect her stylist's portfolio. She was taking a few chances in name-dropping- a lot of her photos were of Cherry modelling her work, in the hope that seeing one of the most well-known journalists in the Capitol wearing her styles would make the panel of stylists choose her. It was worth a try, anyway.

The door behind her opened and shut with remarkable speed. There was a second's silence before the person standing behind Demeter spoke up.

"Is it still illegal to kill people in their sleep?" An annoyed, tired voice asked, the direction the voice was coming from changing as Cherry walked in front of Demeter, observing her work. Demeter giggled, tossing her long green hair behind her shoulder as she looked up.

"Good day at the office then?" She said with a grin, unconsciously fixing her high-collared dress to look better. She had spent the entire day at home, whereas Cherry had been at work the whole day, but she was certain that Cherry looked far better than she did. Cherry was wearing her usual necklace- rhinestones from jaw to collarbone, accentuating her pale face and making her glitter. Demeter was certain that no matter what Cherry wore, she always looked perfect.

Cherry made an annoyed face, and began to accentuate what she was saying with her arms, making her way to the kitchen. Demeter stood up and followed, glad for something to do that wasn't staring at photographs, swatches and sketches.

"Why is everyone so goddamn stupid?!" Cherry said angrily, wrenching open one of the stylish cabinet doors and grabbing some sort of sugary treat from the glossy blue shelves. "Whenever we get close to the Hunger Games, I get people quitting on me every day! I mean, I still have more than enough interns that want a job in the circles, but new workers are even more shitty than the old ones, and the only ones that aren't quitting like it's in fashion are my editors, who think they deserve a pay rise because they're _not_ quitting!"

Demeter forced herself to remain silent- it probably wasn't going to be in her best interests to point out that everyone started to quit during the Hunger Games because Cherry became horrendously, irrevocably insufferable until the Hunger Games had finished and the victor had returned to their district. This year was probably going to be worse- it was a Quarter Quell, and Cherry had started off the Hunger Games season last week by loudly complaining about how 'unpoetic' President Snow's announcement was, before angrily mumbling that her sub-editors would be insisting on putting at least one kind of pun as a headline.

Cherry sighed, stuffing the unhealthy treat into her mouth. Demeter took this as an excuse to talk about herself without being interrupted, and began.

"My day's been okay," She began, ignoring the annoyed look she was being sent. "I got most of my portfolio together, although your cat kept trying to use my sketches as toys." Demeter gave Cherry an annoyed look in turn.

Cherry swallowed swiftly, and began to interject. "She's only a kitten, the poor darling! She just felt lonely without me- isn't that right, my little Soybean-boo?" She crouched down to pick up the little ball of fluff that had just sauntered into the room- _sauntered_, Demeter was sure, like the thing owned the place. Like much of Cherry's belongings, the kitten was bright red.

"Soya _hates _me, Cherry. I mean, it loves you-"

"_She_, Demmie. Soya is a _she_."

"Yes, she, whatever. All I'm saying is, Soya loves you but when she's around me, it's like someone switched on her berserk button and she's determined to ruin anything I'm working on..."

Cherry sighed, picking up a glossy red hairbrush and working carefully on Soya's fur. "I did apologise for that, Demmie!"

Demeter shook her head in annoyance, her bright green hair swaying and catching the spotlights in the kitchen ceiling. "I had been working on that dress for three days, Cher, and that thing managed to ruin it in three minutes. I mean, really, Cherry? Let that little devil run wild in a room filled with my work?"

Cherry looked hurt, but pretended she hadn't heard as she concentrated on brushing Soya's fur. She popped a bubble with her gum slowly as Demeter began to talk again, living up to her self-proclaimed title of "chattermouth".

"Anyway, all of my sketches escaped unharmed, so I'm going to submit my portfolio tomorrow. Oh, Cherry, can you imagine it? I might be a stylist for the third Quarter Quell!" She said excitedly, bouncing on the balls of her bare feet across the kitchen. Cherry smiled, looking up for a second to Demeter before transferring her attention back to her kitten.

"Hey, Demmie, if you're submitting your 'folio tomorrow, maybe you won't be too busy to come to a little party with me," She said with a red-painted smile. "Well, when I say 'little' party..."

Demeter looked up with interest- with all her busy working, she hadn't been to a proper party for something like a week.

"What would this be?" She said with a smile, unconsciously smoothing back her already perfectly styled green hair.

"Oh, only the biggest party of the year!" Cherry said with a laugh, setting down Soya on the shiny blue tiles. "The pre-Quell party!"

Demeter gasped dramatically, before laughing and bouncing around with Cherry, the two holding each other's hands like teenagers rather than the women they were. The taller redhead looked excited as well as Demeter, which was rare- usually Cherry had some kind of frustrated or stressed expression on her face when she wasn't in public, so seeing genuine excitement was rare.

"Ohmigawd, Cher!" She giggled. "How did you get into the pre-Quell party?!"

Cherry laughed, releasing Demeter's hands as she began to talk, with her arms accentuating her speech, as they often did when she was out of the public eye.

"Well, let's just say I did a little article on one Mr Seneca Crane," Cherry said with a wistful smile, swirling around in her long, heavily rhinestoned dress. "And he might have liked it enough to invite me and a plus one..." She said, grinning at Demeter. Demeter grinned back.

"So you're taking the cat, then." Demeter said with a knowing smile. Cherry laughed, leading the way to the immaculate living room where Demeter had been working. Making a sweeping gesture to the huge screen on the wall, the television lit up and began playing Caesar Flickerman. The two of them sat carefully on the plush, semicircular sofa that surrounded the wall, and began to watch.

* * *

"_Well, Seneca, it's only your fourth year as Head Gamemaker, but you're overseeing a Quarter Quell! How's it going trying to design an arena in so little time?" _

_Caesar smiled at Seneca Crane carefully, keeping his expression seemingly relaxed, despite the importance of this interview. An awful lot of people would be watching this show- it was going to reveal the first piece of information about the Quarter Quell since Snow announced it officially last week._

"_Well, Caesar," Crane began, an equally-as-careful smile gracing his face, "It's a very new challenge to be working on incorporating the Capitol into this year's Games, that's for certain. I can promise an Arena like no other, as we've been taking on the opinions of a panel of Capitol citizens for designing the Arena."_

"_I suppose asking what it is is out of the question?" Caesar asked with a laugh. This was deliberate- it kept the tone of the interview from becoming too formal, from sounding too much like they were talking about a matter of life and death. Which they were, of course. Crane laughed amiably, but only for a few seconds before his expression returned to its usual, carefully maintained smile._

"_No, probably not," Crane said, inciting another soft laugh from Caesar. "What I can tell you, though, is that this year, the Capitol can control what happens, as it happens. If you like a tribute, then this year it'll be possible to vote for that tribute's survival at the end. All the practice sessions will be broadcast live, for you to vote on their scores."_

"_Oh, brilliant!" Caesar said with a grin. "So expect a lot of surprises and a lot of interactivity this year, correct?"_

"_Correct," Crane said with a nod. "I think this year's Hunger Games will really show what I've been saying about them for the past four years- that they really can bring a nation together. This year, I'm hoping that we'll really see a more united Games, and- hopefully- a more united Panem."_

_Caesar knew that he was thinking the same of Crane- that this wasn't going to unite Panem, of course it wasn't. What it would do, which is what Snow must have been thinking, was solidify the Capitol as a place to be reckoned with, that cannot be fought against. But Caesar smiled, and agreed, because if it kept him here, rather than fighting against a rebellion, it meant it was a good thing._

_It was._

* * *

**Thank you to everyone who has submitted tributes and Capitolians so far- and a special thanks to revolutionarymind and POMForever, who created Cherry Haven and Demeter Hansen respectively. Expect quite a bit more from these two Capitolians in the future!**

**I've recieved a lot of tributes so far, and I thank you for all of them, but I have a few more spaces left to fill, so here's the list of what's available and what's not. For the record, some male submissions would be excellent. :)**

**DISTRICT 1**

**Male:**

**Female: FILLED**

**DISTRICT 2**

**Male:**

**Female: FILLED**

**DISTRICT 3**

**Male: FILLED**

**Female: FILLED**

**DISTRICT 4**

**Male: FILLED**

**Female: FILLED**

**DISTRICT 5**

**Male: FILLED**

**Female:**

**DISTRICT 6:**

**Male:**

**Female:**

**DISTRICT 7:**

**Male: FILLED**

**Female:**

**DISTRICT 8:**

**Male:**

**Female: FILLED**

**DISTRICT 9:**

**Male:**

**Female:**

**DISTRICT 10:**

**Male: FILLED**

**Female:**

**DISTRICT 11:**

**Male:**

**Female:**

**DISTRICT 12:**

**Male:**

**Female:**

**Once again, thank you all so much for submissions, reviews and anything else- any critiques would be very much appreciated as well. :) I hope you're enjoying 'Illusion' so far.**


	3. Training

The noise the child made was that of a terrified, high pitched scream for mercy. It made Ronan uneasy.

"Are you going to let this kid _beat_ you?!" An agitated, rough voice yelled across the room. "Finish him!"

Ronan glanced away from the child for a second to take a look at the people surrounding the fight. Most of them were as young as the child, ten at the oldest when it came to that group- then there was another group, older, more lethal, who Ronan recognised as his peers in the training facility. They were all watching him. Waiting for him to do as his trainer had asked and knock the child unconscious.

Ronan looked back at the child, who whimpered and wriggled in the powerful armlock Ronan had wrestled him to the ground in. It didn't seem fair- Ronan was eighteen, and one of the better fighters in the eighteen-year-old group; this kid was nine, and was a fairly new recruit to the facility at that. The child hadn't stood a chance against him.

Ronan gave it another second's thought, then stood up, releasing the armlock. The boy gasped in relief as the nearly-torn ligaments of his arm were allowed to return to their normal position, and he began staggering to his feet and stumbling away to his peers. Ronan watched this for a few seconds, then turned to look at his trainer. A 6 foot 7 mountain of a man, his trainer was beginning to go purple with rage.

"In the Hunger Games, _Horne_, the other tributes aren't going to just let you go!" He roared, making the younger group cower slightly. Ronan raised himself to his full height of 6 foot 2 as the trainer began muscling his way past the older group towards him.

"The other tributes won't be that young," Ronan replied simply, shrugging one shoulder as if he wasn't being faced down by someone who could most likely very easily kill him from this position.

"And?!" The trainer asked, spittle flying from his mouth as he raged. "The youngest tributes are gonna look like them, Horne. Young, small, weak, _begging_ for mercy- you can't just let them go because you think it _isn't fair_!"

Ronan shrugged one shoulder again, unconcerned by the trainer once more berating him on this subject.

"Don't have to prove I can beat him. He was already beaten." He said, inciting his trainer to take another step towards him. They were inches apart now.

"The next time you come into this facility, Horne, I'm going to give you the youngest fighter in the facility to fight against- and you _will_ finish them like I tell you to," The trainer growled, leaning in close to Ronan's face before storming away furiously through the crowd of children and away through the double doors. Ronan watched him go, before he found himself surrounded by his peers.

"Hey, Horne! Nice going beating up a kid!" One of his better acquaintances laughed, clapping Ronan on the shoulder roughly. Ronan shrugged him off but gave him a slight smile in return. Another of the group spoke up, sounding pensive.

"Are they really gonna make you kill the youngest kid next time?" The group member said with a frown. Ronan shook his head.

"Probably not, they're getting through recruits like crazy. Besides, I'm not gonna kill the kid."

One of the female members of the group spoke next, manoeuvring herself so that Ronan was looking straight at her.

"Why not? You'll have a better chance at being selected for the Hunger Games if you do," She said, smoothly and emotionlessly. Inwardly Ronan grimaced- talking to Anna Corinna was much like fighting in a ring of landmines- one wrong step, and you'd be in shreds. Incidentally, that was what they were doing next week for the whole-facility training session. Outwardly, however, Ronan retained his indifferent persona. He shrugged one shoulder.

"I dunno," Ronan said untruthfully. He attempted to move to the side, forcibly stop talking to Anna- but she sidestepped with him, her stony grey eyes staring seemingly through him. She leant in slightly, like a panther waiting for its prey to make a wrong move. Ronan didn't like feeling like prey.

"Maybe," She said, her voice beginning to achieve a more malice-filled tone, "You're scared of killing. Maybe you're afraid of seeing that little child, alone and afraid, as you make the move to break his neck." She laughed, cold and cruel. "And then, as you watch the life drain from his eyes, you see his mouth moving soundlessly- saying 'Mercy! Merc'-"

Ronan was sick of her talking, sick of her laughing at death. He moved like a whip, unnaturally fast for someone his size, and went for her neck, his fingers jabbing towards her throat. But she knew what he was doing, and moved equally quickly, if not faster, away, half-crouching, one foot snaking out to hit his shin. Ronan went down to one knee in pain, but recovered quickly, rolling to hit his palms against the cold concrete and flip upwards to his feet. He spun as Anna jumped across the distance to him, catching her upper arm, flinging her across the facility. By now, the entire group, including the younger ones, had circled around the two, cheering on their preferred fighter. Ronan noticed that a fair amount of the group was cheering for Anna and not him.

Anna didn't hit the ground, as Ronan had expected- she rolled to dissipate the force. Ronan had expected this, and so he worked to use it to his advantage- he sprinted across the room to meet her, not allowing her the time to recover from having been thrown across the room. As she tried to spring to her feet, Ronan punched her square in the jaw, snapping her head back and making her gasp in pain. She tried to work past the pain, and flung her fist at Ronan's side, towards his kidneys; but Ronan was standing over her half-crouched form, could see her movements and could anticipate her attacks, and he caught her fist easily and wrenched it upwards and back, moving around her to her back and pulling to dislocate her shoulder. For the first time, she cried out in pain- but it was a cry filled with anger, with malice and unadulterated rage. She lashed backwards with a kick, and it struck home below Ronan's kneecap, on the same leg she had kicked before- Ronan winced as the already-weakened leg was brought out beneath him, and he pushed her away as he collapsed down onto the concrete. She cried out as she hit the ground with her dislocated shoulder, and as Ronan struggled to his feet, massaging his leg, he could already see the fight was over. The pain had overloaded Anna's senses, and she had been knocked unconscious. The crowd around him had gone silent- Ronan reckoned they hadn't expected him to win, and so quickly. Anna Corinna was one of the best fighters in the training facility, and she was well-known for manipulating people into fighting her. Generally, though, those people ended up in a coma.

One of Ronan's acquaintances from his dormitory walked over to him, muttered into Ronan's ear as a few people tentatively made their way towards Anna, crowding round her.

"You are. So. So. Dumb!" He mumbled angrily as he began to walk out of the room. Ronan walked close behind, matching the other's stride easily.

"She's not going to have long to get me," Ronan said with one eyebrow raised, rubbing his hand against his short-cut black hair as he walked alongside. "I'm volunteering in a few week's time, everyone knows that."

The boy was a year younger than Ronan, so he didn't look annoyed at this- Ronan reckoned that he would be if they were the same age. He looked at Ronan with his eyebrows knitted.

"Horne, everyone knows that she's going to be the one to volunteer for the girls. Do you really want to make enemies already? Corinna's a nutcase, Horne- you really want to take 'er on in the Arena?"

Ronan frowned at that. Usually, the males and females of the training facility kept apart- not for any reasons of one being the better fighter, but mainly for not wanting to be around the other. As a result, this was the first Ronan had heard of Anna being the one to volunteer. Maybe he should have just let her teasing go.

"I took her in that fight," Ronan said, but even then doubt was going through his voice.

"Oh, come on, Horne, we both know that was a fluke. God knows how you managed to knock 'er out this time, but next time she's going to be ready for you, and most importantly she's going to be _after_ you." The training facility had long since gotten rid of any compassion or worry for fellow recruits, but what little emotion this fellow recruit had was now directed towards Ronan, he could tell.

Ronan forced himself to shrug one shoulder. "I'll be fine. I beat her in that fight, she's not gonna want to risk her luck in the Arena. Besides, I'd love a fairer fight with her some time."

The recruit shook his head before turning and walking away. Over his shoulder, he yelled something that made Ronan feel the pain in his leg.

"Next time, Horne, she's gonna make it much less than fair!"

* * *

When Ronan left the facility, it was a warm day outside- unsurprising for District 4, as their coastline area was almost always warm in summer. A lot of people manning the simple rafts out on the sea were sweating from the heat- so was Ronan, although not from the heat. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, then wiped his hand on the sleeveless white shirt he was wearing. Most of the sailors were down to less clothing, but Ronan was wearing the standard issue clothing- white sleeveless shirt, khaki shorts, simplistic canvas shoes- and, to fully mark him as one of the training facility, the crossed spears and "4" in the middle, tattooed onto his right shoulder, that labelled him as one of the most deadly fighters of the career district. It was a signal to the Peacekeepers not to apprehend him about being at work, and it was a signal to the rest of the District not to mess with him.

Of course, most people made an effort not to mess with Ronan Horne anyway. At 6 foot 2 inches, with a muscular yet athletic frame, broad shoulders and close-cut black hair, Ronan was at peak physical condition after having been trained at one of the training facilities that the career districts were so famous for. Unlike most trainees, however, Ronan seemed more built to be a sprinter than a bodybuilder- and that he was. Ronan spent an equal amount of time training himself to be a gymnast- he was unnaturally lithe for someone his size and height, and his fellow trainees knew that, and respected his fighting abilities for it.

The sun was high in the blue, cloudless sky as Ronan glanced upwards, breathing in the salty air as a seagull flew overhead. Then he walked back towards the concrete outside of the training facility, and jumped against it, wheeling his legs like he was running as he hit the side of the wall. He was propelled upwards a few feet, and as he was he swung his arms upwards, catching one of the window ledges and dragging himself upwards. He stood on the ledge, jumped up again, and continued climbing up until he had reached the flat roof of the building. The world stretched out beneath him as he walked casually across the roof, to the edge of the other side of the training facility. Another building stretched out below him- he couldn't remember what it was for, but he could see it had another flat roof, about five metres below him, and about ten metres away horizontally. Ronan nodded to himself. He had done this numbers of times before; he knew he could make it, with a little of a run-up and with some care not to trip over the slight lip of the roof. He backed up a few steps, leaning back slightly, tipping his head back to breathe in- before taking a step forward, leaning into himself, and rushing at the roof's edge, jumping at the last possible second.

He sailed through the air, arms up in a reflex response to the sudden jump. He forced himself to bring them to his sides as he closed on the roof at high speed, before bending his legs in preparation for the hit. He smacked against the damp concrete, rolling and rolling to dissipate the shock to his system as he impacted. He rolled to his feet and began jogging, ready to take his little shortcut again.

Building after building, jump after jump- with every movement from roof to roof, Ronan increased in speed. He had trained himself to move this quickly across buildings with great difficulty- although Peacekeepers were always more lenient on the trainees who could bring their district more food through winning, they didn't take kindly to anyone running across the roofs of their buildings like they owned the place, and as a result Ronan had been forced to learn how to run under cover of night. Running in the day was easy by comparison, and held less risks of smacking into the ground in the pitch black night.

Finally, he slowed, moving sedately across the roof of a living accommodation block. He stopped beside a rusted hatch- stooping, he lifted the long-since-opened hatch and eased himself down into the opening, closing it behind him.

The corridor Ronan dropped into had whitewashed walls, threadbare and fairly damp carpets and a single, flickering fluorescent light strip to light his way. It looked pretty derelict, but it was actually one of the better places to live, if you wanted to get through District 4's winters without starving or freezing to death. Ronan's half brother lived here, from the double virtues of working in a job as a fisherman, and the financial support provided by Ronan's being in the training facility. Ronan's mother had placed him into the facility initially, and collected the first financial deposit, but after that Ronan's mother had disappeared back to the docks, and instead the money had gone to Ronan's half brother, Cole.

Ronan stopped outside a bare wooden door, the number "349" painted onto its surface in white paint. He didn't bother knocking, but instead leant on the door heavily, shoulder braced against the wood. It scraped against the cabinet placed against the other side, and eventually the door was open enough for Ronan to slide through on the other side and shove the cabinet back in place. He turned to see Cole giving him an annoyed look, flipping a knife from hand to hand.

"You could just knock, Ronan." He grudgingly smiled, placing the knife on a small, flimsy counter. Ronan shrugged one shoulder, smiling widely for the first time since he had last left Cole's apartment.

"You never hear me, Cole," Ronan said with a chuckle, crossing the room to the tiny kitchen as he spoke. "Who was that last girl you were with when I was here?"

Cole shook his head, smiling slightly. "That was Chellis, and for the record I wasn't 'with' her..."

Ronan laughed raucously, grabbing a knife from the small selection left on a table and slicing a thin piece of bread off of a loaf. "Nah, you were just making out, that doesn't mean you're dating or anythin'," He grinned wolfishly, tearing a bite out of the slice of bread voraciously. Cole tutted, moving next to Ronan and cutting a slice for himself.

"She's the mayor's daughter, Ronan, I'm not gonna see her again," He said, one eyebrow raised. "She's always making out with us sailors and then moving onto the next one if they won't do whatever she says."

"You're a fisherman, not a sailor..."

"Shuttup, Ronan- when's the last time you were in a boat, anyway?"

Ronan grimaced. "Last week- training exercise."

"So not a Capitol pleasure cruise then?" Cole asked with a grin.

Ronan smiled goofily, leaning against the kitchen table as he began gesturing around with his bread slice expansively.

"Imagine sailing on one of those trawler rafts-"

"-More like moving death traps," Cole added with a wince.

"-Yeah, while fighting six other people all at once, barehanded, and trying not to crash the boat into obstacles while steering it around a course."

Cole gave him a shocked look. "Sounds fun."

"You have no idea- I mean, are we really gonna be doing that anyway in the Arena?"

Cole's shocked yet amused expression darkened, into a mix of concern and annoyance. "You're still doing that."

Ronan sagged slightly, sensing an argument on the way. "Cole, I'll come back and then we can live in the Victor's Village with as much food as we like, rather than this," He half-pleaded and half-complained, shaking the bread in the air as he gestured around the terrible-quality apartment. Cole straightened, backing up a step from Ronan.

"Ronan, you're gonna get yourself killed, and I'll be forced to watch. Didn't you get it after seeing Hailey-"

Ronan's expression darkened.

"Don't talk about Hailey like that."

"...Ronan. Don't kill yourself for glory." Cole seemed to be the one pleading now, his expression desperate as he stepped back towards Ronan. "You don't need to prove anything, just-"

Ronan shook his head insistently. "I just gotta do it, Cole, okay? I'll survive, don't worry!" He smiled in an attempt to buoy Cole's spirits, but if anything he just seemed to have made it worse. Cole sighed, shook his head and walked from the kitchen. As he did, he spoke over his shoulder.

"Just- just imagine, Ronan, that it's like what happened last year, except this time it's me watching you rather than you watching Hailey. This isn't a training exercise, and it's not like the games we played as kids. This is real, Ronan, and one day you're gonna realise that." Cole looked almost like he was going to cry, which shocked Ronan more than anything else. Cole had never cried. Ronan's half-brother only said one more thing before he left the room.

_"Just don't realise too late."_

* * *

**Thank you so much for all the support, reviews, tribute submissions and everything else! I currently don't need any more Capitolians, but I thank everyone who has submitted a Capitolian! I also do not need any more tributes- all the others will be self-generated/bloodbath tributes that will not get POVs, so I can dedicate more, and more detailed chapters to the current submitted tributes. This'll be my last author's note until the end, unless there's any urgent need. **

**Thank you to everyone who has submitted, reviewed, fav'd, and read this! You guys are great. :) Please do give me any improvements or corrections, I love being able to improve on my writing. **


	4. Complication

Three bright, shining rods of what appeared to be a mix between some sort of silver and some sort of chrome rested on the table. They were glowing- honestly glowing, with no light source to illuminate them. It looked almost as though the very surface of the rod was the source of the light, but of course that would be ridiculous- unless, of course, you were a researcher in the Capitol.

Lexus Valerian hummed a tune to himself as he focused a laser in on one of the strange, glowing chrome rods. It was the same tune he had been humming for over three hours, and most of the staff in his laboratory had long since been driven out of the place by the incessant noise. Lexus knew that his staff had been 'subtly' abandoning him for precisely this reason- which was precisely why he was continuing to do it. Eventually, he reckoned, the entire staff quota would leave, and he could investigate the rods by himself, without any surrounding idiocy to slow him down.

Unfortunately, four of the staff seemed to be determined to get some late-night hours into work, and in the back of his head as he fixated the laser specifically on a specially marked point, Lexus was working on figuring out a way to drive them out but not him. Maybe move a few hundred viruses onto their computers while their backs were turned.

Lexus was pretty sure he could do that, because he was one of the cleverest minds in Panem. Actually, no; that was being modest. He _was_ the cleverest mind in Panem.

The laser was focused on a small point on the silvery, glowing, chrome- like surface of the rod. Lexus, still humming the same, broken piece of melody, sat down luxuriantly in a plastic office chair, and spun his way across the brilliantly white tiles to a small notebook computer resting on a table top, grey plastic, seemingly ancient compared to the rest of the high-tech circuitry in the rest of the lab. Lexus plugged a custom-made plug into a custom-made socket in the back of the notebook, and it began to whirr angrily. The worrying sound of a skipping disk filled the room every so often- Lexus shook his head, knowing that yet another piece would need to be replaced. Shame- the thing probably wasn't going to last much longer, working as it did on pieces of technology that were never intended to work with such old mechanics.

Lexus had only a few vices in his otherwise perfect personality (if he did say so himself, which he did), and one of them was a love of trying to upgrade old technology to fit with the new. The notebook computer was one of the oldest models still working in Panem- it was one of the nation's first laptops, and although it was fairly terrible, the thing still doggedly continued to work. This time though, Lexus reckoned, he was going to have to mess around with the hard drive.

Unscrewing the base and removing a rectangular component carefully from its centre, Lexus held it up, inspecting it from all sides, eyes narrowed in concentration.

Then he shook the whole thing violently, side to side, up and down. One of the researchers on the other side of the room gave him a look, which he pointedly returned with one of his own, patented glares.

Honestly, he had tried to patent it. Hadn't worked out the way he wanted.

Finally, he replaced the hard drive, thoroughly shaken, in the laptop, screwed the base back on and switched it on again- this time, it whirred smoothly, lighting up its tiny screen to bring up data from the laser fixed on the rod. Lexus hummed some more (two more staff members gave up trying to bear the constantly repeated tune), smirking to himself as he leant in to observe the results. He adjusted the laser slightly, and numbers began to scroll across the simplistic green interface. He grinned, leaning in to take a closer look at the rod. He grabbed some sort of long metal device from beside him on the counter, thumbed a dial on its side, and then thrust the device towards the rod. A crackle of static and a hiss of smoke later, Lexus removed the device from the vicinity of the rod, eyes wide and smile wider. He stood up from the office chair, giving it one last spin with his hand for good measure, and then inspected the device in his hand. About six inches had been completely obliterated, and the ends, filled with half-broken cables, were sparking slightly.

Looking like he had had enough of seeing Lexus destroy expensive equipment, another staff member left the room, leaving just him and one other. Lexus smirked to himself. Three staff gone and only half his research done? He was on a roll!

He laid the sparking device onto the tabletop, pulled a small digital camera from a drawer, and proceeded to take pictures, talking to himself as he slowly circled it and photographed.

"Rod doesn't behave well around electronic devices... Going to need to find a way to encase it in some sort of insulating device before energy can be-"

"Valerian."

Lexus ignored the voice behind him. It was probably the last staff member, wanting to berate him for talking out loud. He decided to speak even louder to get his point across about wanting everyone to leave.

"-Harnessed. That's going to play havoc with the prototype harnesser though, I'm going to have to develop a new-"

"Valerian." The voice was closer now, about a foot away if Lexus was to guess. That was closer than most scientists dared to get to each other- most scientists had a personal space of about three miles, and Lexus realised with a jolt that the fourth person had not been a staff member.

He turned, plastering a charming smile on his face as he spotted the first thing about the unexpected visitor- she was a woman.

"And to who do I owe this unexpected pleasure?" He said, glimpsing at his reflection to ensure it was still perfect. It was- not a single silver-dyed hair was out of place. He turned his attention back to the woman. Lightly tanned, with long, straight black hair that looked natural besides a few dyed streaks of red, the woman was wearing all black, with a tight-fitting jacket that nicely showed her...curves. Lexus smiled, drawing himself up to his full height and placing the digital camera behind him on the counter. There was always time to talk to beautiful women.

The woman seemed uninterested in Lexus, her face remaining neutral as she spoke. "Anamaria Demitri. Head of Security, Captain of the Peacekeeper Guard. I'm sure you've heard of me." Lexus didn't lose the smile, but he inwardly noted that flirting was probably not the best choice for survival. Although he had never met her before, everyone high up in Panem knew precisely who Anamaria Demitri was, and exactly what she was capable of. Demitri essentially controlled the security across the entire of Panem without any holds barred- only the President controlled her, and everyone knew that.

Anamaria was a dangerous individual even when her Peacekeepers weren't surrounding her- one second she could be smiling amiably, socialising and appearing friendly, the next she would be pointing a gun at your head and threatening you to put your hands in the air. She had a mysterious accent, completely different from that of the Capitol, a reputation for being ruthless, and was rumoured for actually having stabbed people with her stiletto heels. Lexus was generally determined enough to look past such things when faced with such a beautiful woman- but in this case, he had decided that Anamaria Demitri was probably too much of a risk to take.

"Head of Security? Now, what could you want from a humble lab researcher?" Lexus said with a wry smile. Anamaria did not return it.

"Nothing- I do, however, want something from the head of technology at Panem Research Laboratories," Demitri replied, completely humourless. Lexus sighed loudly and fairly obnoxiously, allowing his smile to fall into a semi-pouting expression.

"What's the issue? Need tech support over at the Peacekeeper's Guild?" Lexus quipped dryly, turning from Anamaria to start shutting down his laptop.

"You're wanted to review the final arena plans."

Lexus raised a perfectly shaped silver eyebrow, turning to look at Anamaria.

"I've already reviewed the final arena plans. I've re-reviewed them. What does Dalton want me to do, sing it out in an opera wearing a tutu?"

"Fendris Dalton hasn't requested this review. Seneca Crane has."

This made Lexus raise both eyebrows.

"_Crane_ wants me to review the arena plans again? Why?"

Anamaria moved one hand in a dismissive gesture, which allowed Lexus to notice how still the woman seemed to stand most of the time.

"I haven't been told, I've just been asked to bring you the plans." At this, Lexus smirked, just about stifling a chuckle.

"You're his delivery girl? Surely he could just get some intern to do- gcchhhk!" Lexus began choking as his tie suddenly became ten inches tighter. Anamaria had closed the distance between them in a matter of a second, and had forced his loose and relaxed tie to tighten around his neck to a constrictive chokehold. Lexus flailed, but Demitri had already pinned him backwards against a desk, arms pushed against the countertop backwards.

"Review the plans." Demitri growled, before releasing him and stepping back smoothly, her snarl moving back into a neutral expression. Lexus coughed and gasped, rubbing at his neck as he held onto the table with his other hand, bent double as he gasped for air. Without waiting for his consent, she placed a manila folder, marked "CONFIDENTIAL" in red lettering, on the countertop next to him. She looked down at him as he sucked in air.

"I am no delivery girl, Valerian. I am here because nobody else can be trusted with these files. Review the plans and return them to the Red Room in the next 48 hours, adding on any necessary changes needed." She turned, walked towards the doorframe- but turned at the last second. Lexus was just about regaining his breath as she turned to face him.

"And Valerian?"

Lexus took a deep breath. "Yeah?"

"The next time you decide to mock me, I _will _kill you." With that, she left, leaving a flustered and half-choked Lexus Valerian to himself in the laboratory.

"Mother of all that is good," He mumbled to himself, running a hand backwards through his now-messed up silver hair as he straightened against a countertop, leaning back as he began loosening his tie, before deciding against aesthetics for one rare moment, and ripping the whole thing off, throwing it across the room in a moment of childlike panic. He relaxed back, tipping his head to look at the brilliant white ceiling. He remained there for a few minutes, trying to blank the past few minutes out of his day. Finally, he stood up from against the countertop, picking up the manila folder from the surface and flicking it open.

"Alright, let's-" He stopped still, blinking as he stared at the first page. An entirely new, hand-drawn arena lay out in front of him, covered in cramped handwriting- Seneca Crane's handwriting. This was a complete change of tradition. Every single arena plan was copiously worked out on computer graphical imaging, annotated by computer. There was never any handwritten work. This was a spur-of-the-moment arena, and it didn't make any sense.

Lexus frowned, flicked past the first page. More handwritten notes- sheafs of them. What was Crane playing at, redesigning the whole arena with only three weeks before the reaping? He pulled the whole file's contents from the manila outside, spreading them across the countertop. This could be a long night, he thought to himself with a long, drawn-out sigh, as he began to work through the vast numbers of papers.

As he worked, he realised what was going on. Most arenas were years in the making, but with this Quarter Quell the public expectation was that a panel of Capitol citizens would choose the arena, only a month before the beginning of the Games itself. It was another one of these things that all the higher-ups in the Capitol had been laughing quietly to each other about- just as much of a lie as saying the Quarter Quell envelopes had never been opened before. It wasn't going to happen, simple as that. The design and research teams, of which Lexus headed that of technology, had all created an arena that could probably pass for something the average Capitolian would like.

Some of these specifications were exactly what the average Capitolian would like. In fact, it was suspiciously so. Lexus shook his head slowly, before shaking it more rapidly as he uncovered a list of specifications from what looked too much like a panel of Capitol citizens for his liking. What did Crane think the teams were capable of doing, performing miracles? The arena Crane had designed seemed to be at least 30 miles in diameter, with-

Lexus stopped still, hands hovering over a pile of papers. Suddenly, he started throwing one after another away from the pile, digging down to what used to be the first page. He picked it up again- inspected it, closely.

"Oh holy shi-" He muttered, before slamming down the paper back onto the table, fishing a slim, metallic device from his pocket, and pressing a speed dial button.

"This is Lexus Valerian here- drop everything and get down here to the Laboratories. We've just been handed a whole new arena. Ring everyone you can, get everyone on board- threaten them if you must, just get them here. I think Crane's gone nuts or something, because he's taking the whole Quarter Quell thing like it's serious." He paused, before speaking again.

"What are you, my secretary or my mother? Don't you tell me I need to stop drinking and get to sleep, I'm telling you I just got handed a big-ass file with more illegible notes on impossible scientific ideas than is humanly possible. Get down here, stop sucking the face off of whatever guy you've latched onto tonight, and get everyone back in- we're working an overnight."

With that, Lexus Valerian clicked the button again, and groaned to himself. Death threats, strangulation, and an arena to completely create from scratch in three weeks that just so happens to be...well.

This night just seemed to be getting better and better, he thought to himself dryly, as he packed up his laptop away from all the papers he'd be working on tonight. At least he might get to try out his new rods.

* * *

"Are you aware of why we do not show how the Hunger Games are created?"

Seneca Crane looked up from his observing the roses. He kept his expression guarded- he knew he was treading on thin ice as it was, and showing any weakness at this point would likely be his downfall. The last Gamemaker hadn't resigned, and both of the men standing in this garden knew this.

"Why we do not show how?" Seneca questioned, making sure at this point that he understood every word being stated by the President.

"Yes. The Hunger Games is a matter of some precedence in the Capitol, so why not show people how it is created? Why not allow them to see behind the scenes?"

Crane paused. There was a meaning behind this question, there always was when Seneca was asked into the Rose Garden every year. Each year President Snow would ask Seneca a question, each year he would get the question wrong, each year he would leave feeling like that despite his position, he knew nothing of the world he inhabited.

It always left him feeling worse than before, and certainly not feeling wiser. Just more informed, which wasn't always a good thing.

"...It gives it less mystique. It makes it less of an important event, as it's then just, well, another show."

"That is one way to put it." President Snow had not looked up from the roses he was tending the entire time, but now he sat down carefully on a bench nearby, littered with rose petals. Had Seneca been in more of a jovial mood, surrounded with peers, he might have jokingly called it romantic. But despite the perfect, warm night, and the beautiful surroundings, the presence of President Snow seemed to lower the temperature by a few degrees, make the atmosphere heavier. Seneca sat down on the rose petals, for once not bothering to sweep them away in an attempt to keep his brand new outfit clean. Snow seemed to dislike it when people around him did things like that.

The President looked at Seneca, eyes boring through the Head Gamemaker as he regarded him. Then he looked away from Seneca, across the Rose Garden, and spoke.

"We do not show how the Hunger Games is created because then it is real. If you can see that the tributes are not tributes but _children_, it is no longer a game. It is then reality, and the illusion of the show is broken."

Seneca realised with a horrible feeling that the theme of this year's visit to the Rose Garden was not as generalised as it usually was.

"...And then the Capitol would protest." Seneca knew he should have realised this earlier, stupid, stupid.

"And then the Capitol would _fall_." Snow said, head sharply turning to face him, eyes ever-so-slightly narrowed. "If the Capitol saw what they were watching, and were to understand that it was not a game; if they were to make the connection between the death on the screen and the limited experience of death they have, if something was to _give_ them that connection, then the Capitol would_ fall_."

During this statement, Snow's eyes narrowed further, and almost subconsciously he leant in closer to Seneca, until by the end they were only inches apart. Not for the first time, Seneca wondered if the rumours were true about Snow and poison- at this distance, he was sure he could smell blood under the cloying scent of roses.

But a second passed, Snow seemed to realise his demeanor change, and he sat back again, regarding Seneca from a distance. Then the President stood, talked again with a more calm tone as he walked back through the high rose bushes. Feeling like the lamb following the lion into its den, Seneca stood and walked behind as the President spoke.

"The Capitol learn little of other districts for this reason. It keeps them thinking of them as less than human- it's a carefully maintained system. The only time they see anything of other districts other than the games is when they are paraded, when they are interviewed- times when the Capitol is seen as benefactor and the districts as compliant. And when the games begin, the arena is as alien as the tributes are to the Capitol- all the arenas are completely different to anything the Capitol experiences, and that's for a reason- it keeps it as a show, and not reality."

Snow lapsed into silence as the two approached the gates to the Rose Garden, flanked on each side by a silent, gun-toting Peacekeeper. As they reached the gates, and the Peacekeepers opened them, Snow turned to face Seneca.

"Do not let the illusion break," Snow said, the faintest hint of a threat in his voice.

And as the President walked through the gates, Seneca wondered if playing by the rules was the worst decision that could ever be made in politics.


	5. Celebration

She leant carefully into a mirror, trailing long, dark and glossy fingernails down her neck. The dress she wore was much like her usual, long-hemmed fare- but this time, she wore the most extravagant of its type. A deep crimson shade, dark enough to seem black in some lights, accentuated her makeup perfectly- the palest foundation sold, coupled with full, deep red lips, thick-laid blusher, and a wide-brimmed, velvety red hat, a deep red veil flowing from its back, to complete the look. However, the real finishing piece was the neckline. An almost-imperceptable piece of cloth had been studded with tiny rubies and then fitted for Cherry's neck- her neckline seemed to have been adorned with gems. Usually, Cherry didn't go all out like this- but tonight was an occasion deserving of splendour.

Tapping her fingers against her neck once more, to convince herself of what she was wearing, Cherry straightened from the large mirror. The interior of even the makeup room was opulent here- rich blue stone surfaces reflected the low lighting beautifully, with an almost eerie finish. Cherry felt right in this opulent atmosphere. She felt she was where she was supposed to be.

Cherry always found herself in the makeup room before a party- it was just a routine. A few other partygoers, some that Cherry vaguely recognised, were touching up makeup, accentuating their outfits with some last additions. A makeup room was a part of life for almost everybody in the Capitol- you needed to look your best before a party began. Although Cherry felt her makeup was already perfect, a part of her demanded she take this routine- inspect herself, ready herself, judge her own fashion against the others before the party began.  
Out of the corner of her eye, Cherry began the third necessary part of the makeup room routine; judging herself and others. To her left, an old man, somewhat portly, perhaps fifty, wearing a deep blue cravat and a sparkly _green _top hat. Cherry mentally shook her head. Some people simply can't sort their colour schemes out. To her right, a gaggle of three young women giggled and applied more blusher to each other- all wore nigh-matching outfits of sparkly pink or orange. Cherry rolled her eyes, this time not bothering to hide her disdain. Who would wear orange to a pre-Quell party?

She straightened and walked out of the room, her long dress and veil flowing out behind her. Outside, Demeter was standing awkwardly. Cherry frowned at her.

"Demmie? Why're you out here?"

Demeter fidgeted, looking uncomfortable. A green-painted finger traced the flower tattoo on her face.

"Cherry, I don't know anybody- you're the one who invited me, remember?"

Cherry laughed, half out of amusement and half out of pity-sometimes she forgot that Demeter was only just out of stylist college. Of course the girl would be out of her element at a big party.

"Don't worry, Demmie- I know everyone here!"

Cherry knew most of the people here, in fact. The editor made it her duty to know all the important socialites in the Capitol, in an effort to be one of them. Cherry wanted nothing more to be the Capitol's sweetheart, and she knew that the only way to do that was to make connections and ensure people knew her. She pulled at Demeter's forearm, and the two made their way into the large, opulent room where the pre-Quell party was taking place. The hall was one of the largest of its kind in the Capitol- taken over by presidential command for tonight, the place was a finely decorated, opulent area, the high ceilings hanging huge banners covered with the seal of the Capitol. Demeter looked faintly panicked- Cherry just felt satisfied. This was where she was supposed to be. This was what she deserved.

"Ah, Miss Haven!"

Showtime. Cherry pasted on her brightest smile, subconsciously adjusted her dress sleeves, and turned to meet the speaker.

"Oh, hiii there!" She gushed, ensuring she sounded as excited and sweet as she wished to sound. "Seneca Crane! Wow! It's been so long since the interview! You're still as handsome, though!"

Cherry knew what people expected of her, and what she wanted of herself- when the curtains were up, she was more upbeat, more gushing, more sweet- after all, cherries were supposed to be sweet. She smiled at Crane, who smiled back in return. The smile looked strained. Hmm. This could be the hint of a scandal. Cherry made a note to try and pry more details from him in private, but for now she turned her attention to the person Crane had been talking to.

"Miss Haven," Crane said, beginning his introductions, "This is Lexus Valerian, the head of technology for the Hunger Games. Lexus, this is Cherry Haven, editor of CHEW magazine."

Cherry ensured her tone was as upbeat as it should be when she answered. "Hello! How lovely to meet you! Wow, you must be busy for the Quarter Quell this year! Only a few months to do the whole thing in, too!"

The question was carefully planned, one Cherry would be posing to all those who might know the secrets of this year's Quarter Quell. It was enough of a lead to encourage people to tell her more, without sounding prying- the upbeat, sweet tone helped with leveraging answers. She smiled at Lexus, and for the first time checked his appearance, something that was for now secondary to her priorities.

Lexus was dressed strangely for a party- perhaps at work, or at home, one would wear such things, but not at a party! He was wearing a bare minimum of makeup- a light blue eyeshadow, faintly applied- although if she was to be generous, she could say it complimented his bright, neatly gelled-back silver hair. He was wearing a deep blue dress shirt- no diamante gems, no shiny additions- what a weirdo, Cherry thought to herself as she smiled sweetly at him. Lexus laughed- his voice was low, unreasonably low, like a tribute- and answered, unnaturally bright blue eyes glittering cheekily.

"Very busy, Miss Haven, but it's more than my life's worth to tell you about it."

Damn. This guy wasn't going to give anything. Cherry gave a light-hearted response and made her excuses to leave Valerian and Crane- then noticed something as she turned around.

Where had Demeter gone?

* * *

Lexus waited until Cherry Haven's ridiculous hat-veil was out of sight before he confronted Seneca again.

"Seriously though, what are you thinking? I'm not a magician, Seneca! I can't just click my fingers and wave a stick and conjure up an arena- we've got weeks now to complete this, and we've only just started building! How are we going to get that shield put up- you /know/ they take months to construct, you used to be on the tech team!"

Seneca sighed, adjusting his glittering shirt cuffs as he replied.

"The arena is chosen by the Capitolians, and the Quell card was only read two weeks-"

"Oh, don't feed me that, Seneca! What's going on? Why are you making me do a whole new arena- scratch that, why are you making me do _this_ arena?!"

At first, Seneca looked ready to defy the remarks; but he sagged slightly, looking tired.

"Valerian, the woman you just talked to has a very close associate who was shoehorned into the arena decision committee- and yes, Valerian, we _did_ ask Capitolians, they'd be suspicious if nobody was asked," He said with a half-hearted glare at Lexus. "Haven's not an idiot, and if she gets wind from her associate that an arena comes out that _isn't_ one of the ideas discussed- like the volcano arena we had planned- then there's going to be questions asked. Do you want to compromise the Capitol, Valerian?"

Lexus frowned at that- of course not, what an idiotic thing to ask.

"No, but you could at least have thought about this in advance, Seneca. Strategising- isn't that what being a Gamemaker is all about?"

Seneca sent Lexus a sharp glare, softened suddenly as a prominent sponsor walked past. Lexus thought that hilarious- he should provoke Seneca in the middle of parties more often.

"Nobody anticipated Haven deciding she wants to try and get information about anything the Capitol does- who knows how she got to be so popular, but it's starting to mess up all our plans."

Lexus glanced in the direction Cherry had gone- there she was, smiling sweetly at some escort or another.  
"She doesn't look too much like a plan-ruiner, Seneca. More like a childish reporter with an obsession for shiny things."

"Looks can be decieving, Valerian. Heard on the grapevine that Demitri showed you that herself," Seneca countered, amusement evident in his tone. Lexus turned back from his observation of the reporter to give Seneca a particularly dark glare.

"She's nuts, Crane- where'd you dig her up from, the correctional facility? She could've killed me or something, that-"

Crane interrupted him at that, looking faintly tired.  
"Valerian, don't you recognise her?"

"-What? Why would I? She's just the head of security," Lexus retorted, feeling slightly annoyed and faintly confused.

"She's the-"

"Good evening, men."

The two turned in unison behind them- Anamaria Demitri stood there, wearing a leather jacket and singlet, no makeup, no additions to style at all. At first, Lexus wondered why she wasn't dressed up for the party. Then he wondered why she was at a party at all. Then he remembered precisely what he had been saying to Crane about Demitri, and wondered if her promise to kill him was still standing. Seneca seemed to have reached a similar conclusion, as at precisely the same time the two smiled charmingly and spoke.

"Oh, hey there, Anamaria-"  
"Miss Demitri, how lovely to see you-"

If Demitri had heard their previous conversation, she didn't mention it, which if anything just added to Lexus' agitation. Was the woman going to shoot him while he slept tonight?

"I would suggest you did not discuss the details of this year's Quarter Quell; a number of those here are journalists, and it would be unwise to allow them to know anything that they shouldn't."

With that, Demitri turned on her heel and strode away, after a second or two disappearing into the crowds. Seneca sighed tiredly, before looking back at Lexus.

"Get the arena done, Valerian. I don't care what it takes- bring out the prototypes, bring in the Avox, just get it built, and get it built quickly."

Seneca nodded briefly at Lexus, before turning, making light pleasantries with those he passed as he walked towards the bar. Lexus didn't blame him.

Left alone in the centre of the hall, Lexus made the decision to head outside, to the balcony. He dodged away from a few, already heavily drunk partygoers as he made his way across the marble floors, pushing open the ten-feet-tall doors with a little force to walk out onto the huge concrete balcony, decorated on the walls with red silk banners of the Capitol. Lexus smoothed back his hair with one hand, using the other to lean against the balcony railing as he looked over the Capitol. This building, although lavishly decorated on the inside, was much like the others in the very centre of the Capitol- dark concrete, huge and imposing. Lexus had lived here all his life, and he still found the centre city magnficent- for some reason, the whole thing made him shiver.

Or, he reflected, tugging at his thin dress shirt, that could be the fact that summer was ending.

Inhaling the cooling night air, Lexus looked beyond the dark slabs of concrete to the shining, glittering outside of the Capitol- beyond the centre city, the buildings rose tall, thin and coated in glass, lights pulsing from their transparent walls. Lexus identified more with that of the glassy buildings than he did with the concrete- they were tall, bright and shining, a beacon of the Capitol.

Most importantly, it was a beacon of himself- he had designed a lot of what went into those buildings. Lexus smiled to himself, before frowning as his thoughts turned to the arena.

He had about two weeks to finish the arena off. The building teams were working harder than they had ever been pushed before- apparently they were getting through the Avox workforce like there was no tomorrow. Lexus sighed. He hadn't got any time to set up a dome around the facility.

Unless...

Lexus stood bolt upright against the railing, stepping backwards and clapping his hands in jubilation. Of course! He astounded himself with his own genius sometimes, he really did.

Grinning now, his first genuine smile all evening, Lexus spun and headed for the doors, wrenching the huge thing open and swinging it wide as he rushed through the party.

He had a prototype to develop.

* * *

Accalia Mandron was almost ready to leave, if she was honest.  
The whole night, she had been looked down upon and silently judged and ridiculed- until, of course, they knew her name. Once they knew who she was, their demeanor was nothing but gushing praise and pleads to have a portrait done of themselves.

Accalia wasn't sure whether she was most disgusted by the ridicule, the gushing praise, or the requests to jave portraits done- like she was just for hire! Really, did nobody appreciate what she did?

Adjusting the cat-ear diadem on top of her head, Accalia made her excuses to leave one of her latest gushing fans, and make her way away from the side of the room that was steadily getting more drunk by the minute.

"Accalia!"

She looked up in surprise, slowing to a stop as a young girl with long green hair made her way to her. It took Accalia a second, but once she had figured out who it was, she squealed and flung herself at the girl, hugging her tightly.

"Demeter! What're you doing here?!" Accalia said with a joyful smile, releasing Demeter from the hug. "Get accepted in the stylist job?"

Demeter bobbed up and down in her platform heels. "I did, yes! All thanks to you, darling," She added with a smile, brushing her hair out of her eyes as she winked. Accalia winked back, brushing her black hair into her eyes.

"Any time, sweetie! Although I'm sure a design college dropout's recommendation isn't that much of a help with a design portfolio," Accalia said with a modest smile, settling back into her habit of chewing her bottom lip.

"Well, yes, but I'm sure that having the recommendation of the best artist in Panem is a lot of help with a design portfolio," Demeter countered, laughing and tossing back her long green hair from where it had slid past her shoulders. Accalia lost the modest smile in a moment of jest.

"Best artist _and _best writer, remember," Accalia said with a laugh.

In all honesty, Accalia wasn't exaggerating too much from the truth. Although only a little while ago she had dropped out of one of the most prestigious design schools in the Capitol, leaving her, unlike her fellow schoolmate Demeter, without any qualifications, Accalia was now one of the most famous in her field. And her field was artistry. Her field was writing. And she did both to a degree that left the Capitol screaming for more.  
Accalia was most famous, however, for her paintings of the Hunger Games-and one painting in particular. Even Accalia herself couldn't tell you where this painting had gone- one day it had been purchased at great expense by an unknown buyer. Rumours abounded it had been bought by the President himself, but Accalia thought that was stupid. After all, what would the President want with her picture of Yurai Hazar? It was the tribute's depicted last moments, through his eyes, after he had been stung by tracker jackers- not one of Accalia's favourite works, but everyone seemed to love it for some reason.

Nevertheless, any Mandron painting was worth more than most of the tall, glittering buildings of the Capitol's outer city were worth- and despite merely being nineteen, Accalia was already a rich, high-powered socialite. What she did mattered, and that included her recommendations to her friend's design portfolios.

"So Accalia, got anything planned for this year?" Demeter asked. Accalia rolled her eyes- of course she did!

"Yes, a book, and certainly I'm thinking of doing some paintings of the Quarter Quell," She said, faintly exasperated.

"Sounds like this isn't the first time you've been asked," Demeter said with a sympathetic smile.

"That editor you're roommates with- Cherry Haven- she's an absolute _pain_, sweetie, how do you _live _with her?!"

"Accalia, she's not that bad!"

Accalia grimaced- that was an understatement. "She wouldn't stop pestering me with questions- is she some kind of fan or something?"

Demeter laughed- if Accalia didn't know her old schoolfriend better, she would call it mocking. "Oh, no! No, no, no, darling! Cherry's just a bit eager when it comes to the Hunger Games- you know, she has to have everyone's interview and such."

Accalia felt a little hurt by the inherent accusation that Cherry did not in fact care at all about her work, but she allowed the matter to drop and turned the conversation back to a love the two friends mutually shared.  
"So how's the portfolio now? Any ideas for the districts?"

Demeter winced dramatically. "I've been given 10."

Accalia winced in sympathy. "Oh, no! Animal costumes in the near future, then? Surely, sweetie, you won't do such a thing?"

"Of course not, Accalia! No, no! I have some ideas, but really- this is just depressing! I wanted 1, or 3; something I could work with, darling! That was what half my portfolio was!"

Accalia smiled at Demeter, adjusting her cat diadem again as she spoke.  
"It'll be fine, Demmie- you're a natural with clothing! More than I ever was, anyway."

Demeter sounded relieved.  
"You think so?"

"Of course! You'll make District 10 unforgettable, sweetie!"

Demeter smiled in relief, before glancing over to a position somewhere over Accalia's shoulder. Accalia glanced back- Cherry Haven was there, sipping a drink at the bar.

"Do you need to talk to her?" Accalia asked, sad to leave one of her only friends at the pre-Quell party but tired enough that she wouldn't be upset to let Demeter go and go home. Unlike most in the Capitol, Accalia hated late nights, and relished the prospect of getting to sleep within the hour.

"Yeah... Hey, Accalia?"

"Yes, Demmie?"

"Who's that Cherry's talking to?"

Accalia turned, unpeturbed by Demeter's lack of knowledge when it came to partygoers. Really, the girl was so work-obsessed when it came to clothes design, she only went to small parties every week or so- she put Accalia herself to shame sometimes.  
She frowned as she attempted to place the face- then she raised her eyebrows in surprise.

"That's Anamaria Demitri!"

"Who?"

"The Head of Security! What's she doing here?"

Demeter stepped beside Accalia, frowning curiously at the black-clad figure. "The Head of Security? Why's she not wearing party clothes?"

Accalia took in the scene- all the beautiful coloured dresses and suits, the hairstyles, the makeup- and there stood Anamaria Demitri, wearing a simple black jacket and simple black trousers- only her hair, dyed red at the tips, and her deep pinkish-red eyes gave her any distinction at all. It was strange. Not only the fact that the typically secretive Head of Security was talking to one of the most notorious gossip-mongers in Panem, but the lack of proper party clothing- it was strange, really. Like Demitri was here for some other reason. The scene felt alien to Accalia- although it was clearly in front of her, she was having distinct issues rationalising it.

Maybe in a painting tonight, she could pinpoint the dark shape in the sea of colour. She could forgo sleep for that.

"Want to talk to her later?" Accalia suggested to Demeter with a smile.

"Yes, let's- shall we go to the banquet table?"

Accalia lead the way through the crowds, glancing up at the colourful silk banners of the seal of the Capitol. She smiled slightly. Maybe some people didn't understand the beauty of colour, like Demitri, but Panem did, and she did, and that's all she cared about in the end.

* * *

"I'm sorry, you must have mistaken me for somebody else," Anamaria repeated mechanically, pulling away with a fake but seemingly genuine smile on her face. Haven pouted, looking despite the extravagant getup remarkably similar to a fish.

"If you're not Anamaria Demitri, who else could you be?"

Anamaria briefly contemplated pulling her pulse gun on Haven, for one indulgent second; just to see her expression. Then she pulled the fake smile back onto her face and began backing up from the bar table, repeating her insistence of her not being Anamaria Demitri. Before Haven could start complaining and do her fish impression, the Head of Security had manoevred herself through a large group of revellers and disappeared back to her favourite location in the hall- in the shadows near the staircase. She was required to be here for security reasons, to ensure nothing confidential was said, but that didn't mean she was enjoying the experience. The additional order not to tell people who she was, in case people questioned the added security, just heightened her mutual annoyance at being here tonight. She had the whole of Panem to police, and here she was, standing in a hall, watching-

Ah.  
The soma purging had started.

Soma was a liquid, drunk mostly at parties; it caused the drinker to violently regurgitate whatever they had eaten before. Anamaria didn't know why the people of the Capitol enjoyed the experience so much- it was hardly something Anamaria would describe a pleasurable pasttime, and certainly not one to be practiced in company- but in the interests of eating more of the rich food available, partygoers would drink soma, in the middle of the dance hall. Anamaria was only grateful that she was not expected to join in today's revellry, like she had been ordered to in years past- this year, President Snow had given her a longer leash.  
She fingered her necklace, glancing away from the soma drinkers and transferring her attention to the tiny silver pendant hanging from a chain on her neck. It was the eagle of Panem, set in a circle of silver. She was required to wear it- she had stated in the past that it would be useless and a potential strangulation weapon in a fight, but she had since learnt not to question what Snow ordered.  
At least out loud.

A bell tolled in the background- well, the digital recording of a bell tolled. At once, the crowd quietened and straightened up, standing to attention towards the largest silk banner in the hall. The red silk, augmented by the bright yellow eagle of Panem, rippled slightly in the breeze left by an open balcony door. A fanfare played, the crowd stood still, and began to sing. Anamaria sank deeper into the shadows.  
_  
"The horn of plenty..."_

The Capitolians had been raised this way. When the bell tolled, when the anthem played, the Capitol sang. Anamaria didn't understand it.

_"The horn of plenty overflows!"_

And the horn of plenty overflowing was true, if you were in the Capitol. Rich foods were piled up on the banquet table- seafood and poultry in thick sauces, huge and exquisite meals just lying there to claim. Most of it would likely not be eaten.  
_  
"Panem shall rise above,"  
_  
Rise above what? That was the question. Panem was all there is. No other nations existed. Once, many years ago in the past, there were- but it was known that no nations existed anymore. None but Panem. There was only Panem.

_"Panem shall reign above,"  
_  
That part was true. When it came to reigning, the Capitol reigned over Panem spectacularly.

_"And shall never fall again!"  
_  
That was why she was here. Panem was reminded never to fall by the Hunger Games. The most potent reminder. The strongest show of power. That President Snow reigned.

Anamaria ceased fingering her necklace, aware that the anthem was about to end. She dropped the silver eagle beneath the jacket, reflexively felt for her pulse gun, and readied herself for the partygoers' leaving. A few were still drinking soma- two young women were still here as well, who looked singularly out of place in the pre-Quell party. The one with long green hair giggled as the second- which Anamaria recognised as that artist, Accalia Mandron- tripped over, spilling soma all over the floor. She noted the large bottle of wine in the green-haired girl's arms.  
Anamaria had seen enough of the Capitol's party behavior for now. She made a curt order to the plainclothes Peacekeepers to keep an eye on the final partiers- all the real security liabilities had left a little while ago, including Lexus Valerian. Especially Lexus Valerian. If she ever had a spare moment again with Lexus Valerian, she would help test his theories of her having been from the correctional facility by placing him there forcibly.  
Or at least she could indulge in those thoughts.

Her thoughts were all she could indulge in anymore.

She turned away from the huge, red silk banners of the Capitol, and walked into the night.


	6. Autocracy

Cotton threads floated in the air; permeating the already musty and dry atmosphere and turning it from merely uncomfortable to unbearable to work in. The threads ranged from smaller than a millimetre, where they would stick to your dry throat and make you feel even more parched than before, to the larger ones, about an inch across, that when breathed in would cause you to cough violently. The whole system could make a worker's breathing degenerate in a matter of weeks- months could incapacitate you.

Jesse wore a scarf over his mouth after his first day.

A single Peacekeeper, armed with a standard-issue pulse gun and a standard-issue rifle, watched the cotton mills with an intensity that Jesse had never seen drop in all his time working here- and he had been here a long time. The Peacekeeper would change from day to day, but the look as they surveyed the factory floor from their balcony above never did. It made Jesse uneasy- it made everyone uneasy.  
Not that Jesse was looking at the Peacekeeper now- he was far too preoccupied with work.

Jesse was somewhat of a perfectionist, if he was forced to be honest. He would learn a lot, fairly swiftly, by the completely ruthless tactic of striving for absolute perfection- and then, having achieved this skill, he wouldn't rest until whatever he was doing was like clockwork and perfect every time.  
As Jesse had been working in the mills for about nine years, he was now one of the most skilled at creating cloth from thread; perhaps a useless skill, but, as Jesse would reflect, at least it was one. He could make cloth.  
Jesse reckoned that, if given the opportunity to flaunt his skills, he could make it from practically anything-not that he had ever had reason to really try. He worked in the cotton mills. Nothing else was done. Nothing new had been done since when he had started.  
Jesse was bored of his job, if he was honest. But it wasn't like he was some Capitolian who could do whatever they liked with a wave of their huge wigs. No, he worked here, in District 8, for minimal wages, with practically nothing else he could do; he couldn't just change his job because he was bored.  
Personally, though, Jesse felt nine years was quite long enough to have mastered the art of cloth-making. He had no wish to carry this on his whole life.

Jesse was sixteen- seventeen in two weeks, but he preferred not to think about that. His birthday was Reaping day-it wasn't the most cheery day of the year to celebrate when you spend it waiting for your name to be called. And besides, it just highlighted the dismal conditions Jesse lived in. He lived with his father in a dismal apartment in one of the many Peacekeeper-run blocks, surrounded by disease and smog and cotton fibres. He had no reason to celebrate his birthday, especially when he had the added pressure of whether he would be reaped or not.

Jesse had lost count of the number of tesserae he had taken over the years- how many more slips with his name on it had been placed in the Reaping pool. He hadn't wanted to, but he really didn't have much choice- not if he wanted him and his father to live. His dad was so ill that he was bedridden-well, in what passed for a bed- for almost all the time. Jesse had to bring in food and water for both of them, which in District 8 was no small feat as it was.

A klaxon blared above the factory floor- a signal to leave. It wasn't pay night until tomorrow, so it was one of those days where Jesse would have to go hungry tonight. There was only enough food at home for a single person, and he had to prioritise his father.

But before he went home.

Jesse had his eye on one of the newer workers- a cleanly-dressed girl, his age. He had seen her around at school a few years ago- Flax, he vaguely remembered her name was. She looked new to the job, supported as she probably was by a large family. Jesse reckoned she had never taken tesserae more than once.

"Oh, hello there," He said with a beguiling smile, walking over to Flax as the workers left their posts and headed swiftly for the locker rooms. "It's wonderful seeing you, Flax. How long's it been?"

Flax giggled slightly, cheeks flushing. She untied her work apron and hung it on one of the rusted pegs. "Jesse Tanner, right? It's been a long time!" She answered, fiddling with a lock of her hair as she picked up her canvas satchel of belongings from one of the many dented, broken and rusted beyond repair lockers. Jesse mentally shook his head, hanging his apron on the peg opposite hers in the thin corridor. She really was new to the job if she thought valuables were safe in what was sparsely called a 'locker room'. It was little more than an unlocked storage space filled with scrap metal.

"Too long," He purred smoothly, nonchalantly brushing his dirty blond hair from his eyes in a way he knew drove all his female peers crazy. Flax was no exception- she giggled and brushed one hand against her work trousers as if to make herself more presentable. Bingo, Jesse thought to himself. Another day of this and she would be eating out of his hand.

A Peacekeeper poked his head and rifle into the locker rooms.  
"No remaining stationary," He growled, jabbing his gun into the air slightly as he glared at the remaining workers in the room. Jesse dropped his head slightly, unwilling to risk his life for the sake of some flirtation, and glanced with a cheeky smile at Flax as they were half-herded to the exits. Flax returned a muted giggle, and then she disappeared into the crowds of workers. Jesse sighed slightly, and returned his gaze to in front of him, shuffling through the crowds of people walking to the sunlight streaming through the rickety exit doors. There was a thick scent of sweat and dirt in the air, mixed with the musty smell of cotton fibres; the smell of District 8, Jesse thought to himself cynically. People rarely washed themselves- water, especially in summer, was in short supply, and unless you were the mayor or you were in a gang, you didn't have any to waste on washing.

Jesse walked through the exit, and late afternoon sunlight spilled onto his face- he tipped back his head slightly, allowing himself to slow down and bask in the relaxing warmth for a few seconds. Then, steeling himself, he began his walk home.

District 8 was a fairly small place, but had a lot of residents pushed into a single area- and when District 8 couldn't build out, it built up. Huge, imposing concrete buildings, stark grey and crumbling, dominated the district's skyline; anyone who could afford housing would attempt to get rent for an apartment at one of the Peacekeeper-run buildings. Those who were mutilated by machinery, or unable to find work, would sit in the cold and rain, scavenging desperately for scraps of food. There was little to be found; District 8's citizens ate anything they could find, and were careful not to waste anything. The poor sat or lay against the buildings, crying out plaintively for food. They skittered away as Jesse and the workers approached; the more sadistic cotton mill workers would often kick out at the poor. Jesse just kept his head down and walked in the shadow of the concrete buildings.

Last year, one of the taller buildings had collapsed- Jesse reckoned from a mixture of poor quality building and neglect. But because it coincided with the Hunger Games, the Peacekeepers had taken a different view. All survivors of the collapse, former residents of the building, were rounded up and shot for terrorism against the Capitol. Jesse's friend had been in that building.

After half an hour of walking, most of the workers had dispersed to their buildings already, leaving Jesse to walk alone in the cool early evening air. Jesse picked up the pace a little- curfew was about to start, and he despised when he had to end up running for the entrance.

The sun was halfway set when Jesse dragged open the splintered plywood door and pulled himself into the hallway. A klaxon sounded behind him- the signal of curfew. Anyone found after-hours would be shot. Of course, many workers were still travelling when the klaxon sounded- it was a daily match with death for them. Jesse was on the fringe of that, every day. After a while, you got used to the threat of guns plaguing your journey home.

The hallway to the stairs was dark and depressing- only the odd gang member ever frequented the place, and only then to fight. Bloodstains covered the floor- some of them had been there a lifetime, some looked like they had been spilled this morning. Jesse's threadbare shoes stuck slightly against the floorboards as he walked to the staircase.

All of the buildings in District 8 were in various stages of disrepair, and Jesse's home was no exception. Half of the rickety wooden staircase to his apartment had collapsed a few years ago- _woodworm_, a few of the older residents had called it. Jesse stopped by the beginnings of the staircase. Beyond the first few steps, the stairs were caved in, little more than sawdust.

Jesse hopped up to the first step- it creaked slightly but took his weight. He stretched up, grabbing hold of a slight defect in the walls; an indent, barely there at all. His fingers found purchase on the slight depression, and, placing a foot onto the scuffed wall, he pulled himself up, resting his weight on his fingertips. The second he felt himself begin to slip, Jesse had already moved- hand to another indentation, foot kicked out into the wall for a temporary hold. By this point, he was positioned above the broken stairs, about four metres in the air. Jesse grinned to himself. He was getting good at this.

He continued swinging from hold to hold, wheeling his legs against the wall to push himself upwards and to the side. After a minute of this, he landed heavily against the floorboards of the first floor. He leant against a doorframe for a quick breath- climbing the sheer walls of the staircases was tiring. But he had four more floors to climb, so he dragged himself over to the broken and splintered staircase, and swung himself up onto a handhold. A girl from the first floor, a year younger than him if he remembered rightly, glanced out from her apartment and smiled sheepishly at him as he began his ascent- throwing climbing safety to the wind for a second, he removed one hand from a handhold to smile rakishly and wave at her. She giggled and waved back. Jesse wondered if a late-night call to her place would be a good idea tonight- she was pretty good looking, and he was pretty sure he could get a meal off her. Giving her a final wink, Jesse returned his attention to climbing.

He continued on, climbing up to the fourth floor before needing to stop for another breath. Immediately he regretted it- a gang was out on the corridors. Jesse ducked back, hiding by the lip of the broken staircase. He positioned one foot back on the wall, ready for a swift escape if necessary- then peeked around the corner.

The gang members were one of the less violent in Jesse's building, to his relief. On top of that, half of them were on whatever stash of morphling they had stolen this time. His hand fell away from the knife stashed in the lining of his shirt, and he instead began walking casually across the hallway, slowly to avoid notice from the gang- on morphling and less violent as they were, Jesse never let his guard down around gangs. His hand still brushed against his hidden knife every few seconds.

Jesse climbed the final floor, knife bumping against his hip where it was hidden. It was only a small switchblade, easily concealed, but Jesse knew how to use it- with the amount of gang members around, that was non-optional.

The fifth floor, where Jesse and his father lived, was one of the less eventful floors- there were only a few gang members, and only one who was from a powerful gang. Nevertheless, the walls were broken and in places covered in fresh bloodstains- Jesse never doubted that his home was dangerous.

Jesse pushed open the door to his apartment- there was a pile of rags jammed against the door to prevent it from opening, but the distinct lack of locks in the building meant that if somebody wanted to come into your apartment, they were in. Jesse relied on the fact that there was nothing really worth taking in the house.

"Who's there?" A hoarse voice called from Jesse's left. Jesse smiled at his father as he kicked the rag pile back against the door.

"Relax, dad, it's me."

A sallow face poked through a pile of threadbare and dirty blankets.

"Jesse. Weren't you paid?"

"Not till tomorrow, but relax- we have food in the kitchen."

"Eat on the way to work again?"

Jesse's excuse for not eating himself. It would never have fooled his father before, but these days almost anything could fool his sickly father.

"Yeah. I'll get you some food, 'kay?"

His father sank back into his blankets as Jesse headed to the only other room- a double kitchen and bedroom. A concrete slab had been dragged in place to allow Jesse to light fires on it without burning the building down- a small sack contained a few firelighters and a largely stale piece of flatbread. Jesse ignored the rumblings of his own stomach as he headed into his father's room and handed him the piece of flatbread- a few flax seeds fell from it as his father shakily took the bread and tentatively closed his mouth around it.

Jesse nodded, smiled, and walked back to his own room quietly. A bang resounded from downstairs- gang fights, Jesse reckoned to himself. The morphling-high gang were probably getting their comeuppance for stealing someone else's stash of the drug. Jesse pulled his knife from where it was hidden in his shirt lining; he quietly flicked the blade out and in. It was something he had stolen from a gang a year or two back- they hadn't noticed, they had stashed enough weapons over the years that one tiny switchblade could be easily stolen without notice when their backs were turned. Jesse had stolen it when his father had become ill- when his sole surviving parent couldn't care for him anymore, the only person Jesse could rely on was himself.

Although the women could generally be relied on to fall over themselves when Jesse was around.

Jesse turned the blade around in his hands- he looked at his own reflection in the shiny metal. Tanned skin, icy blue eyes and fairly long, blonde hair- Jesse wasn't rich, and he wasn't a Capitolian, but anyone could admit that he was damn good looking. He smiled and winked at himself in the blade- before flipping the knife hilt into his hand and flinging it at the opposite wall, a few metres in front of him. The blade slid into one of the prexisting gouges left by the knife- it shuddered as it stuck there.

Jesse leant over and pulled the knife from the wall- repeated the process. His smile was gone, replaced with neutral determination.

He liked to imagine the wall was a Peacekeeper. A Capitolian. President Snow.  
Tonight, Jesse imagined he was throwing his knife at a tribute. That he won the Hunger Games. That he was in the Victor's Village.

In his heart, Jesse knew that the Hunger Games was horrific- that he would never win such a game, that entering the Games would spell death for his father, left alone. Jesse knew it would never happen.

But here,in the dark, hungry, with the company of a knife- Jesse liked to imagine.

* * *

It was almost too quiet today. The day high above them was warm and pleasant- not too cold, not too hot, with a cloudless sky above. It was one of those days that was actually nice to go to work in. On most warm, pleasant days like these, Avian would be in a good mood. She'd get up uncharacteristically early, even for her, and watch the sun rise. After that, Avian might allow herself to open one of the tiny, murky windows of her little ramshackle house(which was little more than a hut, really), and let the warm air flow into the musty, aged rooms, bringing with it the strains of hummed music, the chatter of a world awakening- District 9 at its best, she would think to herself, on days like these.

Today, however, it was silent. No music filled Avian's tiny home; no chatter, no noise. Perhaps it was her imagination, but it seemed like even the birds had fallen silent today.

Over the night, one of the few pregnant women in Avian's sector had gone into labour. The screams as she had attempted to give birth had been horrifying, guttural screeches of pain towards the early morning, and as the sun had broken out over the horizon she had died, her child with her. Ptica had returned an hour ago, his hands half-washed of the blood of the dead mother, and mournfully looked in Avian's direction before slumping under the threadbare blanket besides his brother, Krilo. Avian had been awake ever since, and had been contemplating the sun with a faintly weary expression for the past hour. It was approaching six now, and Avian knew she wouldn't be permitted rest for much longer before the Peacekeepers got to her sector. She dreaded having to wake Ptica, though- he had already had a horrific enough night.

Avian was the only sister of the three siblings, and as a result she had almost become their mother. She cared for her younger brother, Krilo, like he was her son and not her sibling, and with her older brother Ptica she supplied a kind of sarcastic, weary love that she imagined was sisterly, but was often scolded by Ptica as being motherly. Avian wouldn't know, really- parental figures were somewhat lacking in this family.

Ptica was the protector of the family, though, if Avian was to be honest. Her older brother, at 21, was more mature than his sister of 18 or his brother of 13, and was the strongest, naturally, of the three- Avian always felt safer knowing he was there. He had also become the unofficial medic of Sector 3, where Avian and her family lived- with a complete lack of medicinal training, Ptica had nevertheless found several plants that reduced pain or provided bandage material in the area, and had gone about trying to save the rest of Sector 3 from infection, pain and disease. Avian privately reckoned it was because of their mother that Ptica tried to save everyone, but she'd never mention it to her brother.

It was why Ptica had been out last night- he had been desperately called to help deliver the child. Ptica had no experience of such a thing, had never dealt with it before, and Avian knew that her brother would be silently, sullenly blaming himself for their deaths for at least two months before he could even begin to get over the incident. Avian had seen this happen before- every time that Ptica couldn't save someone, had no experience, had no knowledge to deal with it, he would feel that guilt for a long time before he would permit himself to let go. Avian couldn't help- frankly, nobody could. Ptica was the only thing close to a medic in District 9, and even he was near-useless. There was nothing to be done- in the closed-off area that was Avian's home, there was no authority that would help. Just the Peacekeepers existed as authority, and the only times Avian had ever seen them act they had either beaten or killed those in District 9. It felt wrong, but what could Avian do? What could any of them do but try to save themselves?

Shaking herself out of a reverie of ever more depressing thoughts, Avian stood from where she was somewhat slumped against the wall on a rickety chair, and walked through the doorway to rouse her brothers. It was probably her least favourite job in the household, especially after a night like Ptica had had.

"Hey, Ptica, Krilo- come on, wake up," Avian murmured half-forcefully, shaking the two that were still sleeping soundly underneath the threadbare blanket on the floor. They began to mumble sleepily and stir, although Ptica spent a few extra seconds in oblivion before he could be woken. Avian smiled at them as they began to open their eyes and focus on her, and she walked out of the room, busying herself in the tiny space that she'd designated as the kitchen. Some flatbread awaited the two brothers when they walked in- as ever, Avian ensured she gave them some sort of breakfast, despite the fact that they could barely get food some days. Avian never revealed how she got the grain- she felt it would probably frustrate and worry the two brothers to know.

"Mornin', Avian," Krilo mumbled, rubbing the heel of his palm against his eye as he walked into the room. Ptica came through the doorway afterwards, dark circles under his eyes and hair stuck up on one side. Avian decided not to say anything- Krilo had slept through everything last night and would just be distressed if he knew what had occurred last night. Besides, Ptica wouldn't want to talk about it. He never did.

"How long do we have before work?" Ptica eventually said, grabbing one of the flatbreads and tiredly chewing on it as he walked over to lean into the table in the centre of the room, then sitting down heavily on one of the chairs. Avian knew he never did that. She sighed into her own flatbread before looking up from it and speaking.

"Not long," Avian murmured, before looking out of the window, unwilling to catch Ptica's gaze. Then she noticed something.

There was an old man outside- being dragged out to a patch of ground by Peacekeepers. He yelped and wailed, his voice carrying through the walls and windows. Krilo leant in, his eyes widening slightly.

"Hey, that's Old Dagan!" He cried, before quietening at the next sight.

The Peacekeepers pulled out their pulse guns and fired.

Old Dagan was one of the loosely-termed medics in Sector 3- someone Ptica had learnt a lot from. He was one of those characters, who although he was fairly weak, would always be tottering around helping people with anything they needed. Sector 3 was one of the most policed sectors of District 9, and the three siblings had seen a lot of beatings in their time, but they could have never imagined that the Peacekeepers would target Old Dagan.

Unless.

Unless they thought Dagan was the one who had been out after curfew, delivering the child.

The three watched in horrified silence as the pulse gun caused Dagan to convulse on the floor, eyes snapped open, mouth in a silent scream.

And then he went limp.

Krilo let out a soft whine. Ptica collapsed further into his chair, flatbread falling from his hands to smack against the ground.

And Avian listened to the deathly silence.


	7. Casuistry

She balanced carefully on the branch, eyes focused on its movements. Swaying with the wind, she gritted her teeth in concentration. She was too far up, she knew- she should have just stayed on a lower level, or a stronger tree. Now, though, she was stuck a daunting distance above the ground, on an unsteady tree, with the lower, dead branches of said tree having shattered into a million tiny splinters when she had attempted to climb down. Her only wayof getting down from the treeline now was to jump over to a nearby tree, with a large, steady-looking limb swaying tantalisingly in frontof her. It wasn't too far away- perhaps a metre if she was generous. That didn't bother her.

What bothered her was two things- one, the distance between her and the ground. Two, the fact that nobody would help her now, because she had gone outside the boundaries of her district. She was in the forest, which was forbidden for a number of very strong, very logical reasons. Chanel wondered if she should just sit here a little longer until someone came looking for her- but then she remembered that she would still be stuck up in a tree then, and she still only had the one choice. She bit her lip, inched a little further along the branch- and jumped.

Her torso slammed into the limb of the tree at great speed- she whimpered slightly at the sudden shock, and shot out her hands and feet instinctively to try and drag herself onto the limb. Scrabbling in a jerky, uncoordinated manner, glancing over her shoulder to look at the rolling, far-below ground, Chanel dragged herself up, clinging to the limb like a monkey.

In her slightly confused, adrenaline-fuelled state, Chanel just lay there for a moment, thinking about monkeys and other mythical creatures. Then she remembered that there was no time to be thinking about such things, and sat up sharply, taking in her surroundings.

She didn't think there were immediate breakages that had lead from her jumping onto the branch of the tree- that was good. But Chanel didn't want to risk her luck, and so began shuffling across the branch to the trunk of the tree. Slowly making her way down, Chanel finally collapsed onto the welcome ground- she chuckled slightly as she sat down against the trunk of the tree, feeling the adrenaline rush wash over her. Her arms and legs were shaking, but she felt perfectly fine now- Chanel didn't climb those trees for no reason. She giggled to herself as she began the short walk home, relishing the feeling of excitement she got despite the danger it had put her in.

Chanel's family lived fairly close to the outskirts of District 1, away from the factories and other facilities. Her family was relatively affluent, and enjoyed the luxury of being close by the borders, next to the forest. The Peacekeepers quietly pointed out to the Vienna family at least once a week that the forest was filled with dangerous creatures, but they had never let the warnings bother them- they loved the peace and quiet the woods brought, along with the beautiful view.  
Chanel just liked the trees.

Chanel knocked on the door, but it was wrenched open mid-knock- her mother practically pulled her into the house, hugging her tightly. "Oh, darling, I was so worried, I was so _worried_, don't you dare stay out so late again-"

"I'm fine, Mom, just- argh- you're strangling me-"

She was released hastily, her mother checking her over carefully. "You were out in the woods again, weren't you, I said to you, don't go out in the woods, but you never listen- oh, you've ripped your shirt, cherie!"

Angelique Vienna was the epitome of a fashion-conscious over-protective mother, Chanel had always stated.

"Who do you love more, the clothes or me?" She asked sarcastically, backing up from her mother and pulling a leaf from her hair, walking over to the kitchen. Her mother clucked her tongue as she followed Chanel into the room, beginning to get some food from the fridge.

"You, cherie, _of course_, but really, you should be more careful- clothes aren't cheap, you know," She admonished, unwrapping the foil from a glass dish. Chanel rolled her eyes but smiled nevertheless, turning to face her mother.

"Not for any reason like my safety, of course," Chanel said teasingly, leaning over and stabbing the food with her fork, before raising it to inspect it. Upon reaching the decision whatever it was would be okay cold, Chanel shoveled the whole forkful into her mouth, smiling around the metal implement as she tasted apple tart. Her mother sighed and shook her head, placing the dish carefully down before beginning to admonish her daughter.

"Really, cherie, you act more like a little boy than a grown woman sometimes! When are you going to behave properly?"

"Probably about the same time I dye my hair and volunteer for the Hunger Games," Chanel shot back with a raised eyebrow and a smirk. Her mother sighed wearily but smiled, used to her daughter acting in this way, and settled for ruffling Chanel's hair and leaving. Chanel attempted to smooth down her hair, only to realise much of it was matted anyway. She made a mental note to have a shower later.

Chanel's mother, Angelique, hadn't passed on her love of clothing and being a seamstress to her daughter- but what she had passed on were stories, and traditions. Almost every night, Chanel and her mother would settle down, Angelique likely with some sewing, and she would tell her daughter of their family's origin.

Being a seamstress, according to her mother, was in the blood. Chanel was named after one of her ancestors, who had been a seamstress as well- her and her mother and her mother before her were all descendants of a line of seamstresses and designers. They were all from a family that, apparently, had once not lived in Panem- the details of where they had lived were lost to the generations, but even the prospect that once they had lived far away was enough of a tantalising story that Chanel was interested. Once, her ancestor of the same name had lived and worked somewhere outside of Panem; Chanel's mind sometimes boggled at the prospect that anyone had ever  
lived outside Panem.

Many things had been passed down across the generations- snippets of an ancient language, stories of the world before Panem, when the forests were safe and the fences weren't needed- and an accent. Mostly out of pure stubbornness to keep their family's spirit alive, all of Chanel's ancestors, her mother, and indeed her, had retained an accent- a strange, melodic way of speaking that Chanel found perfectly normal by now, but had somewhat ostracised her from a few of her peers, for sounding strange. Well, it hadn't really taken much to ostracise herself from her peers anyway. Chanel was popular in District 1, but popular in an unwanted manner. Anyone who wanted to be her friend generally only wanted to be so because of her family's wealth and high social status. All of Chanel's apparent 'friends' frustrated her to no end, as all they ever wanted to do was sit down, do each other's makeup and discuss their clothes. Chanel, for her part, tried as hard as she could to express how much she hated makeup, and clothes, and sitting inside all day- and especially how much she hated _them_.

Chanel despised makeup- using paler to make her skin a pasty white had never appealed to her, and she had instead settled for keeping her skin lightly tanned. She despised the practise of dying one's hair to a white- blonde colour- she retained her dark brown hair, ignoring her urges to get rid of the lighter streaks that naturally ran through it.  
She especially despised girly clothing- every time her mother used her for a clothing dummy for yet another Capitolian's gown, she would grind her teeth and loudly complain until she could bear it no more and would head for her refuge in the forest. In fact, that was what Chanel had been doing a few minutes ago.

Chanel glanced out of the window. It was still fairly light, and she needed to go to the market, so she shoveled a few more mouthfuls of apple tart into her mouth before picking up her worn leather bag and heading out the door.

Chanel's house was on the outskirts of the District, but it still only took her five minutes to walk down the road and reach the main city area of District 1- a sedate, neatly paved square, filled to the brim with vendor's stalls- most selling shiny jewelry and fancy clothing.  
Chanel passed by a few classmates as she walked through the square- dolled up, with layers of paler on their skin and freshly dyed hair, perhaps wearing a few sparkly adornments to their ears or necks- and  
some of them were male, for goodness' sake. Chanel felt perfectly comfortable in her makeup-free face and lack of jewelry, and so she just ignored their faintly disgusted expressions as she walked by them, allowing a smug grin to silently act as her retort. They passed by in silence, but Chanel had still managed to get the upper hand- a little victory over her snooty classmates.

She languidly walked through the square- she wasn't a fan of shopping, but summer wasn't over just yet and she was happy to go slower and drink in the late evening sunshine. A few Peacekeepers conversed with some marketgoers; one pointed to the forest and shook his head, to the apparent satisfaction of the Peacekeepers. That was all the guards of District 1 did anymore- warn of the dangers of leaving the district, and what lay beyond the fences. In the areas of the district fence that did not border the Capitol, they said, the forests were filled with deadly creatures. As a result, the district was content to stay where they were; the dangers that lay beyond the fences were enough to scare them into staying inside the boundaries.

Chanel had never met any deadly creatures. A few jabberjays once or twice- they had been an exciting find- but never anything truly terrifying. Deer were the biggest creatures you'd find outside the district fences. Which begged the question why Peacekeepers were so sure it was dangerous, but Chanel reckoned they were all just paranoid.

After a few more minutes of walking in the warmth of the late summer sun, Chanel began to reach the stall she wanted. Unlike many that had been trying to catch her attention, this stall didn't contain shiny gemstones, or gaudy clothing. This stall contained knives.

Chanel found no challenge in everyday life. Perhaps a little amusement in school, in verbally battling her peers, but schoolwork was easy and her peers didn't have the ability to keep up with her wordplay.  
Instead, Chanel had to find her challenges elsewhere- and she had found them in the forests. Climbing trees had been a great start, and it had been more than enjoyable, but Chanel wanted more out of her experiences outside of District 1. She wanted to try full survival one night. And to do that, she'd have to kill and eat an animal. It sounded pretty gross, but Chanel was determined to set herself that challenge- and she needed to get the equipment to start practising.  
Hey, it would be fun.

She nodded at the vendor- an old man, wearing the simple work clothes of a retired factory worker. He smiled in return, sweeping a wrinkled hand over his merchandise.

"Vienna, right? I have a lot of very beautiful knives here- anything take your fancy?"

He had misunderstood her intentions as being purely aesthetic. She shook her head slightly.

"I need something sturdy, strong- something that won't break or rust too easily." She poked at a knife with intricate inscriptions on its handle- that certainly would be useless for actual work. "What do you have?"

The old man looked faintly surprised. "Oh? Well, I suppose I have a few-" He sifted through the rows of implements, squinting through misty eyes. "-Ah!" He picked up a knife, flipped the blade expertly into his palm, and presented it to her hilt-first. "Will this do?"

Chanel took the proferred handle and looked it over carefully. She didn't want to waste her money on something that would snap after a single use. It was small, the whole thing probably fitting into the palm of her hand if she was to try to fit it there. The blade itself was only a few inches long, but looked sturdy and wickedly sharp. The handle was smooth, well- varnished and unembellished wood, small but designed to be held comfortably in the palm.

Chanel loved it, much to the surprise and disappointment of the merchant, who endeavoured to sell her the more gaudy, engraved and diamond-adorned blades. Nevertheless, Chanel bought the knife, complete with little sheath, and rolled the little object around in her hand as she walked home. It wouldn't take down a deer, but she might be able to kill and gut some squirrels or something.

And wouldn't leaving a few gutted squirrels outside a few doors just _creep out_ her schoolmates?

* * *

The sky was beginning to lighten- deep, inky navy was diluting into a smooth grey, and then to a rich gold, as the sun rose higher in the sky.  
Accalia was still working.

Nobody ever saw the sunrise in the Capitol. At first, when Accalia had realised this, she had endeavoured to bring her friends to see this marvel of colour- but they would always be partying too late, sleeping too long, to see the beautiful colours. Accalia had almost felt depressed at that- that nobody else saw this marvel of colour- but she  
had later realised that she in fact was lucky. The sunrise was hers and hers alone- when all others were asleep, or perhaps partying obscenely late, Accalia would bring her easel out to her balcony, and paint as the sun rose.

Today, she was painting the same thing she had been painting for the past week- Anamaria Demitri.

The Head of Security was somewhat of a famed, mysterious figure in the Capitol- few had ever seen her before, and fewer still had ever met her. Accalia had met her once, at one of her earlier presentations of her artwork. Back then, the name Anamaria Demitri had only just appeared in Capitol society- one day she had just appeared as the  
leader of the security details in Panem, no reasons given. And back then, Accalia hadn't given it much thought when she had seen the supposed bodyguard to President Snow- she had only been concerned with why the President was here to see her work. Demitri had stayed behind him, dressed all in black, silent and unmoving.

Later, she only felt confusion about the whole ordeal. President Snow had never expressed interest in her work before or after the showing, and only spoke to Demitri throughout the reveal of her art- only a close friend of hers with ties to the security team of the Capitol had later told her who the black-garbed woman had been.

Accalia wondered at the hidden side of her world- what occurred behind the curtain of the Capitol. Seeing what others did not was not only her passion but her trade- being an artist and a writer, in her opinion, was to see new things and to show them to the world.  
Another piece of her art which quickly disappeared off the markets was her depiction of an old, grey-haired Avox, cleaning the streets in the early morning sun. Like her picture of the tracker-jacker-stung Yurai Hazar, Accalia felt it was a view into a world the Capitol rarely seen.  
Like her picture of Yurai Hazar, it had been purchased at massive cost and completely anonymously. Accalia wondered with a slight smile if she had a fan.

She looked up from the small piece of the canvas she had been working on, and scanned the whole thing over with a sceptical eye. It was one of her most detailed pieces to date- Anamaria Demitri, painted precisely as her memory dictated it- standing in the centre of bright colours and warm light, an abberation in the atmosphere of the party,  
businesslike and soberly dressed. Accalia smiled in satisfaction- five days well spent- and stretched, turning on her stool to observe the sunlight spilling across the shining roads of the Capitol. A few Avox were out already in the early morning, cleaning and sweeping the streets- Accalia liked watching them work. It felt like her own private view into Panem- how the streets were kept so pristine all the time. Accalia had once asked a friend of hers, to see if anyone else had noticed the Avox, how the roads were always clean- their response was an apathetic shrug.

Accalia's painting of the old Avox hadn't been too popular with the masses, as it hadn't been about the Hunger Games- only her anonymous fan seemed interested in her work of the Avox. Accalia wasn't sure if she liked that or not- she kind of missed that picture. She had never even seen the Avox street sweeper after she had sold the painting- she had felt a little sad at that too. A little piece of her world, gone.

But there were more sweepers and more mornings, and Accalia painted more Avox to replace the sold painting of her street sweeper. The replacement pictures didn't feel the same, in all honesty, but nevertheless Accalia kept them in her personal vault in her house, alongside all of her other valuable items she couldn't bear to part with.

Accalia wasn't sure what to do with her painting of Anamaria Demitri. It wasn't too different from all her other paintings- the vast majority depicted people in some way, shape or form, and it wasn't unusual for Mandron paintings to use colour to pick out the important elements- here, Demitri stood in simple black against the garish colours worn by the other Capitolians.  
What was rare about this painting, however, was that she had made the subject a high-ranking official, almost as high as the President himself. Everyone knew that you couldn't take or make pictures of the President- Accalia wasn't sure if what she had done operated under the same rules.

She picked the small square of canvas up, slowly transporting it inside. She had made up her mind what to do with the painting- it couldn't be shared, not even with her anonymous fan.

Accalia's home wasn't huge, but four stories and a basement gave her room to create several little hiding spaces. Her vault was the largest, holding valuables such as unpublished manuscripts, paintings- things personal to her and her alone- but she had several other safes scattered around her home. Accalia slid a wardrobe out of the way, revealing one set into the wall- she entered the combination, opened it up and carefully slid the still-wet painting face-up in the metal interior. Shutting it, sliding the cupboard over the safe, Accalia wondered what would happen if it was to be found.

She wondered if those rumours about the correctional facility were true.

Accalia loved the Capitol, she really did; but all things have their darker side, even if people only wish to view the light. And Accalia knew enough about her homeland that she had developed a sense of privacy and a need to keep secrets, far more so than her peers.

Accalia wasn't going to take any chances. She loved the Capitol. She wanted to keep it the other way around too.

* * *

**Good day readers. :)**

**If you're following this story(or were following it) then I deeply apologise. I cancelled a single update because of illness, then lost momentum and just collapsed into a pile of GCSE work. But I have intentions to finish this. In fact, just so you know and have a metaphorical stick to poke me with in the future, I have two sequels planned out with all these characters. This isn't finishing now, it's not finishing after their Hunger Games end, and it won't be finished until I've finally laid them all to rest(literally and metaphorically). Basically a full 200,000 word-odd trilogy.**

**So if I ever stop updating again you have my express permission to scream at me "But your plans!" and poke me with the above metaphorical stick. **

**Or just give up on me and try another writer. ;)**

**My apologies for the additional author's note, I'll keep them to a minimum. Thank you for reading this far.**


	8. Stability

Jack wasn't a drug addict, but he was currently holding several litres of morphling in his satchel.

He carefully made his way through the rainy streets, endeavouring to keep his footfall light. Peacekeepers were rife in the more illicit areas of District 5, and he wanted to keep his neck away from any rope the higher ups had lying around.

The night was filled with the sound of heavy rainfall and the steady thunk of machinery. District 5 was a 24/7 workspace, and the power stations were kept active all day and all night; Jack couldn't remember a time that the steady background of machinery hadn't been forever in his home.

Jack felt his worn leather satchel periodically; perhaps he was being paranoid, but it comforted him to know that the plastic IV bags were still intact and still there. He needed to be sure that the goods were intact, or he was going to be in a lot of trouble with the gang.

And Jack wasn't a gang member, but he did carry their stuff.

Jack Parker lived in a palatial home by the general standards of the District 5 community; he lived in a Victor's home. His grandmother had long ago been a Victor of the Hunger Games- the twenty-third, to give an idea of her age.  
Despite their elevated status, food was an issue to the large family of the Parkers, and Jack's parents had to work exceptionally hard to garner enough food for their four children and Jack's grandmother, even though the food supplied by the grandmother's Victor status did ease it somewhat. And to help his parent's issues with money, Jack had abandoned school(he hadn't liked school anyway) and had taken on a huge number of jobs to help support the family.  
Not all of them legal.

Jack heard the Peacekeepers before he saw them, and he had slid into an alleyway before their torch beams had swept across the space where he had been only seconds before. He swiftly moved through the alley and onto a new route to the safehouse, using some more, even smaller concrete paths. The whole of District 5 was made up of high-rise concrete buildings and old, soot-stained brick factories, all of the inbetween areas paved with smooth concrete. In the routes Jack was currently using, the concrete was cracked, tall weeds curling against the brick.

Jack walked swiftly but calmly towards a high-rise building in the centre of the District- one of the many filled with factory workers. A few windows were light, filled with the flickering light of candles; but most were pitch dark by this time of night. The only thing lighting Jack's way was the light seeping from one or two opened windows of the factories. Jack shivered, flipping up the collar of his jacket as he slid round to the back door of the building. Even in the late summer, the nights in District 5 were cold.

The concrete steps up to the second floor of the building were deserted, but Jack kept a close eye out-you could never be too careful on a night this close to the reapings, and Peacekeepers would every so often conduct surprise searches. Even as the grandson of a Victor, the enforcers of the Capitol wouldn't hesitate in executing him for being out after curfew.

He reached the second floor without any issue, and he quickly walked to the door in question. Knocking would only draw attention, so he just opened the door straight out, poking his head around the corner.

"Hello?"

"Oi, 'oosere?"

They were drugged up already, Jack thought to himself with a grin as he strolled into the room. This would be easy.

"Hi, I was told to bring this here," He said, unhooking the flap of his satchel and bringing out a bag of morphling to show. Their sunken eyes widened as Jack waved the drug in the air to accentuate its presence.

"'Is 'at all?" One of the gang members mumbled, staring at it in mesmiration. Jack grinned.

"Depends how much you're paying me, man, these drugs aren't cheap," He teased, swinging the bag back and forth dramatically. All eyes were on the drug, and nobody made a move to do anything. Jack realised they were completely out of it by this point in the evening. They would be absolutely wasted tomorrow.

"Tell ya what, I'll just give you these-" He placed the morphling on the floor next to a gang member, lying the other plastic bagfuls alongside. "-And I'll pay myself, alright?"

Jack wasn't going to risk his skin to take too much, but a wad of money lying on the floor next to the gang's weapons cache was too tempting not to take advantage of. He peeled off a couple of notes from the wad- too much extra and they'd notice and probably take their revenge later against his family- and shoved them into his satchel, grinning. He gave the half-catatonic gang members a wave as he backed out of the room. One waved back.

As Jack half-jogged down the staircase, he considered whether to go back to his family or make a quick stop-off halfway- and after peeking through the foyer door and seeing no nearby Peacekeepers, Jack decided to risk his luck with a little detour.

The night stretched above Jack as he swiftly walked through the rows of residential housing for the tenement he was looking for- upon finding it, he smiled, then cautiously slid open one of the secretly loose window bars protecting against others in the area- boarding up or protecting windows and doors was commonplace in the worse areas of District 5.

He slipped in and replaced the window bars quietly, before turning to see a single figure in front of him, leaning against a doorframe. He grinned ridiculously widely, half-sprinted forwards and wrapped the figure in his arms almost excitedly. She giggled and pushed him away slightly.

"Relax, Jack, I wasn't gonna disappear since we last saw each other!"

He smiled fondly but concernedly, loosening his tight embrace as he looked at her. "It isn't a kind world out there, Fi. Just glad to know you're safe and well is all."

Fi stood on tiptoes and gave Jack a short, sweet kiss on the lips. She pulled back, smiling softly. "I'm fine, Jack. We're both fine."

Jack gave her a tighter, more pained twitch upwards of his lips in return. "I'm just- I'm just worried for you and the family. Reaping's in a week, and I just-"

Fi held one finger to his lips this time around, her smile not dropping but her eyes serious.  
"We know what we'll do. If your brothers are reaped, you volunteer. When your sister gets to the age of reaping, you know I'll volunteer for her. And we stay together, no matter what." She leant in and kissed him, longer and more longingly; Jack pressed his lips against hers as if he was afraid she would disappear any second. Then she released her hold on him, and as she put a little distance between them her eyes turned playful.

"Cause who knows what kind of mess you'd get yourself into, Parker!"

Jack caught on to the jesting but pretended to be hurt by it, jutting out his lower lip dramatically. "Me? Mess? What a thing to say, you know I always stay out of trouble, Miss Fiona!"

That bit was a blatant lie and they both knew it. Jack had always been massively protective of his family and more recently Fi, and any kind of insult towards them made him fly off the handle with often very violent results. But Fi had calmed him down a lot since they had started seeing each other. Turns out not all conflicts need be solved with violence. Who knew?

Fi smirked and trailed a hand back around Jack's neck, tracing a line from his shoulders to his long dark hair, pulled into a ponytail, back around to his face. "Oh yes, of course, Parker. I'm sure you're the Peacekeeper's favourite." She leant in, nuzzling his neck. "Not like you ever do anything illegal at all," She commented pointedly, one hand brushing over his bag.

Jack gave her a grimace. "It pays well, Fi. I'm always careful."

Fi sighed and poked him softly in the chest, like she wanted to argue but was far too tired to do so. Jack noticed for the first time how late it was.  
"Just look after yourself as well as everyone else, Jack, okay?"

Jack leant down and gave her a long embrace, coupled with a shorter kiss as he straightened. "Will do, Miss Fiona," He mock-saluted her, before straightening his bag and making slow moves towards the window. "Tomorrow evening, alright? I might get us a little treat," He said, thinking to the extra notes he had stolen from the gang. It would be enough for something special for the two of them- maybe something in the market, some good quality food or something similar. Fi smiled at the thought.  
"I'll see you after work, then- stay safe," She called softly after him as he began to open the window bars.

He looked back, smiling at his girlfriend. "You too," He said, sliding out of the window and into the night as Fi closed the shutters on the other side of the window.

He resumed silence as he walked home. His family may live in a Victor's home and get slightly more food than the norm, but that didn't mean they were saved from reapings in the Hunger Games. The Capitol just put them all in, unheeding of who they were, whether their being reaped would affect only them or all of their family.

Jack knew that if any of his family were reaped, they would struggle to stay on top of food issues; and every year his grandmother had to go to the Capitol for mentoring, and every year it degraded her physical wellbeing a little more. Jack knew that when his grandmother died, the house and food would go, and they would be homeless and starving.

He only hoped that when that day came, he could provide for his family himself.

* * *

Sever spent the night in the barn.

It hadn't been comfortable, if he was honest, but he had been working late, and he had been so sleepy that he had rested his head on a pile of hay, and then bam- it had been morning. Sever had stumbled out of the small, stuffy building with pieces of hay sticking from his hair.

The sunlight rising over the horizon was colouring the sky a pale gold, and Sever smiled at the sight as he rubbed at his eyes, and began dragging his fingers through his hair. Typically, Sever would have it tied up with some piece of string or another, but overnight the string tie had fallen out, leaving his curly, straw-coloured hair to fall to its normal length by his jaw. Sever winced as his overly curly hair tangled up in a piece of hay- he tugged hard, and the hay and some strands of curly hair were removed from his head.

Humming to himself, Sever jogged over the cattle field to his small, thatched-roof home, stopping only to pat the head of the family's pet dog, who had loped over to say hello. The poor thing had been caught in a bear trap as a puppy, and its leg had been completely torn from its body- nevertheless Sever had refused to see it killed, out of mercy or not, and the now three-legged dog lived on happily, mostly from stubbornness on Sever's part. Sever couldn't bear to see animals in pain, and as a result had turned the Cinder household into somewhat of a personal animal shelter. His siblings didn't mind- his father was somewhat less thrilled. Ostensibly it was something about the extra mouths to feed- Sever reckoned it was the fact that the motherless chicks Sever had brought in had decided that Sever's father was their mother, and had taken to following him around everywhere. Even to bed.

Sever lived in a wide, open plain known as District 10- there were few hills, few buildings, and an abundance of farms. Each farm was fenced off with barbed wire, to prevent movement between the farm members after curfew. Cattle grazed in the prescribed field each farm of District 10 owned- their gentle sounds were a constant comfort to Sever. He smiled, brushing a hand through his dog's fur as he walked the last few metres to his home.

The Cinder farm was awake early, as usual for most in District 10- unlike most, the younger members of the family were preparing for school.

Most families in District 10 saw no purpose in education when all the important work to be done was at their farm, taking care of and butchering animals- however, Sever's father Achilles had a deep-seated love of the education system for some reason none of his children could fathom- as a result, anyone under the age of 16 in the Cinder household went to school, whether they wanted to or not.

Sever certainly didn't want to go. School was a source of constant frustration for him- not from the work, as that was easy, but from his classmates.

People at school judged him from the second that his name was called- Sever was an unusual name for anyone. He reckoned he didn't do himself many additional favours when it came to being social, though- he wasn't one for talking, he was tall and broad-shouldered, which apparently intimidated people; and he had an uncanny habit of telling people precisely what they had done last night.

Deduction was one of Sever's little talents-little in that it was only useful for alienating himself from people. He would ask someone curiously why they were going out with someone, or what they had been doing in the Peacekeeper's offices, and all he'd get in return was a shocked, faintly terrified look. It was generally only then that Sever realised nobody had told him this information- he had just picked it up from little details here and there. Ink smeared on their shirt cuff, a frayed portion of their bag- Sever didn't generally intend to figure these things out consciously, he would just see those details and figure it out in a kind of reflexive manner.  
Unfortunately, most people just thought he had been following them.

It wasn't that Sever didn't want to make friends, but he seemed to have gone completely the wrong way about it.

Sever hummed softly as he pushed open the rickety wooden door, opening into a busy kitchen- his family were sitting around a table far too small for the four of them- his father, older brother, younger brother and younger sister. Sever gave a lopsided grin at his large family and decided to make the small table even more crowded, plopping down on one of the small, splintering but well-loved benches. Pictor, his older brother(well, older half-brother), gave him an annoyed look as Sever ended up half-crushing his leg, but obediently slid to the side slightly with only a stern mumble of "Been in the barn all night again" as a greeting. His younger (half) sister, Fraise, giggled and slid to the side to accomodate Sever's appearance between her and Pictor, waving one oversized shirt cuff at him as her personal greeting.

Opposite, on the other side of the table, his father and younger brother sat, smiling as they greeted Sever.

Achilles, his father, looked happy but slightly alarmed. "Where have you been outside?" He asked curiously. Sever smiled to himself as Pictor sighed softly.

"In the barn. Fell asleep in there," He said, brushing his jaw-length tangle of curls from his face absent-mindedly. Achilles looked almost shocked.

"Oh- didn't notice, I mean, ah-" Sever would be lying if he didn't say he was surprised by this reaction. His father always lost track of his children, and was generally trusting enough of his two eldest sons to let them do what they liked- still, it was clear he was unsettled by how he had had no idea Sever had been outside the house all night.

His younger (half) brother, Kyte, grinned at Sever excitedly.

"Wow, you stayed out all night? Can I come too?"

Achilles made to say something, but Pictor got there first.

"No, Kyte."

Kyte was only ten, and still had a fairly cute, child-like look to his face- so his act of jutting his lower lip out was adorable enough that even Pictor was about to relent. "But Sever gets toooooo-"

Sever intervened himself before Fraise could catch on to Kyte's whining and join in- she was six and unlike Kyte probably wouldn't stop whining for the rest of the day if she got the excuse.

"As cute as you look right now-"

Kyte got a horrified expression on his face. Sever sometimes found that knowing things others don't came in handy. Kyte hated being called cute and it had stopped him dead in his tracks.

"-I don't think you should be sleepin' outside 'till you're older, Kyte."

Sever shared an amused look with Pictor as Kyte rapidly turned tail and went to his usual complaints about "not being cute"- that, the family was used to.

Achilles passed Sever a small slice of bread coated in a thin layer of butter- as Sever ate it ravenously, his father stood and made little "go away" hand motions to his children.

"Now go on, off to school with you! I have cows to milk," Achilles said with a smile, bending down to ruffle an affronted Kyte's hair before kissing him on the cheek. Kyte made a face before rubbing furiously at his cheek. Undeterred, Sever's father moved around the tiny table to replicate the gesture to Fraise, who worked to replicate her older brother's gesture, wiping at her face with a far-too-big shirt cuff while pretending to screw up her face in disgust. Sever and Pictor just went with the affection boredly, accepting the hair ruffle and kiss.

Sever searched the kitchen for a piece of string to tie his hair up with before he left, but the other three left before him and he was left sprinting after them to catch up- they were just leaving the family farm when he caught up with them.

The people of District 10 were slow to rise but the Peacekeepers weren't slow to rise at all- it was a daily occurence that they questioned the Sever family's movements and today was no exception. As the white-uniformed men walked over to them furiously, pulse guns in hand, Sever and Pictor just sighed and stood in front of Fraise and Kyte protectively, ready to make their daily explanation of travelling to school.

As long as they were all together, the rest of the world didn't really bother them.

* * *

**Please note- Reaping will begin in the next 3 chapters. **


	9. Reverberation

There were literally days left until the Hunger Games.

She couldn't be more excited.

Astraia had never been a host before- but she had watched them all her life. They would come up on stage, shining pinnacles of fashion, and personally oversee the Reaping- personally take the tributes to the Capitol. It was a glitzy, famous job, and now her dreams were days away from realisation.

It was going to be so much fun! She wasn't too happy with the District she had been assigned(urgh, 5, the power people), but she was determined to make the best of it. After all, if she did a good job, she would be promoted; and her favourites, 1, 3, and 4, might even be a possibility for promotion!

Astraia was sat in front of a huge, wall-sized mirror, which incidentally covered her whole wall. It let her have room to try out her multitudes of wardrobe ideas, as well as room to try new makeup techniques.

Hosts always had to be well turned-out, after all, and she wouldn't recieve a personal stylist until after she got back to the Capitol- she had to make herself look as good as possible for the Reaping without a stylist's help. Tomorrow she was to pack and head for the Training Centre to recieve her full briefing on what to do at the District- leaving her just today to finalise wardrobe choice.

She carefully placed a lipstick vertically against her lips, and slowly dragged down, leaving a bright, waxy stripe of teal next to the existing shades of green on her lips. She lowered the stick onto her expansive cosmetics table, smacked her striped lips appreciatively, then stepped back to admire her appearance across the wall-covering  
mirror.

Green and blue themed her outfit- Astraia had seen District 5 on TV and knew how dull their colours were, and had decided she would impress them by being a beacon of everything their dull lives wasn't. And she would pick them up from their dull grey lives and bring them to the Capitol and turn them from just another district citizen into a  
beautiful Capitolian.  
Well. In looks. You can't change a District citizen's personality, there was a reason they had rebelled, and there was a reason they fought readily to the death each year.

When it came to her involvement to the tributes, Astraia really didn't want to spend any more time with them than necessary. The undisciplined districts might be incredibly uncivilised; they might even attack her. She just wanted the fame, not to associate with other districts. They were all dangerous and she was hoping that the benefits of fame would outweigh the drawbacks of having to deal with tributes.

And a benefit of fame was already showing itself; one of the reasons Astraia was getting her wardrobe finished off today was because of an exclusive interview and photoshoot- conducted by Cherry Haven herself.

It wasn't every day you got to be in the famous CHEW magazine.

The doorbell resonated across the room- her Avox answered the door as she quickly smoothed out her long, flowing aquamarine dress. She turned to see Cherry Haven and a young cameraman enter the room, and she smiled excitedly.

"Hi, Cherry!" She trilled, bouncing forward as quickly as her heels allowed her. Cherry Haven, _the_ editor of CHEW magazine,_ the_ "sweet as a cherry" Cherry, gave a smile that showed off her perfectly applied paler and deep red lipstick and greeted Astraia in turn."

"Astraia Ryder! It's so nice to finally meet you, the newest District host, what a lovely apartment you have, do sit down, over here-"

Cherry led her through her own room to the large, luxuriant sofas- Astraia didn't really register Cherry leading her through her own home, or indeed the quick, vicious looks she kept sending her flustered cameraman, she was just overwhelmed by being in front of the most famous journalist in Panem- and she was about to interview _her_.

Cherry sat down carefully to avoid crumpling her beautiful long red dress, and adjusted her hat before starting the interview. The cameraman had already set up a little recording device in front of the two, and was now busying himself setting up his camera on a tripod, while Astraia's Avox dutifully set up the white photography background.

"So, Astraia, what's it like being a host for the very first time? Are you looking forward to it?"

Astraia smiled sweetly, almost unable to keep from bouncing in herseat. She was actually speaking to _Cherry Haven_.

"Oh, it's a dream come true- and on the Quarter Quell, no less! I've been spending days on my wardrobe, and I can't wait to get out there and show my district their new host!"

Cherry smiled encouragingly, throat sparkling with a thousand tiny gemstones studded on a neckpiece. Astraia found her eyes drawn to it as the journalist spoke, sending new shards of light in new directions as the gems moved.

"And what about the district you've been assigned- can you tell us which one you have?" Cherry said, tilting her head slightly. Her huge tiara-like red hat shifted slightly and she quickly righted it as she waited for Astraia's response.

"Oh, I have District 5 this year, Cherry- not really the one I wanted but oh well, I'll only be there a couple hours, right? Besides, it's what happens after the Reaping that's the exciting bit!" Astraia said, trying to keep her tone upbeat. She was really quite disappointed- she only hoped she could make a good enough impression that she would get District 1 or something more- civilised, perhaps?

...Was she supposed to tell Cherry her district?

Cherry made no indication whether she had been right or wrong in stating her knowledge of district assignments, but simply made another encouraging smile and led her to the photoshoot, making an irritated gesture at the cameraman to start. Astraia pointed for her Avox to leave the room and then started positioning herself for the photoshoot.

_Flash_

Astraia smiled beguilingly behind the layers of makeup as another bright light assailed her.

Oh yes.

This was the good bit.

Astraia wasn't a talker, or a writer, like Cherry; she was a poser, a model, there to be seen. She was doing something that would get her into the limelight- her days of being just another Capitolian were over.

Time to shine.

* * *

Thick sheafs of blue paper, lined with white, were piled neatly on the plyboard desk. Curling corners of the few loose sheets had been weighted down with a few misshapen lumps of glass, pencils laid very precisely next to the sheet closest to the front of the desk. In the bottom corner of the desk, a single corner was permitted to be messy- strange, bulbous guns, wires coated in colourful plastics, and piles of silicon-coated motherboards covered the single area of the office that was even close to messy.  
And sitting in front of this desk, soldering a tiny wire to a tiny connection point, sat Crucis Wishart, the owner of the office.

He was a genius when it came to the design and development of weaponry. District 2 handled weaponry and thus had its own modest facilities; and in these facilities Crucis was undoubtedly (in his opinion anyway) the most accomplished. He had designed the pulse gun that was now standard issue to all Peacekeeper forces- he hadn't been acknowledged or paid for it, but he didn't need to be. He just enjoyed doing his job.

And he was only just 18, so the manager figured he could get away with not paying him.  
He was weird enough that nobody wanted to encourage him to stay in the weaponry facility anyway.

Crucis had just finished soldering when he heard the yell from outside his small office.

"Why are there _eyes in the goddamn microwave_?!" Someone screamed. Crucis checked the clock on his wall boredly. Lunchtime. 1:23 to be precise.

"Put them back!" Crucis yelled in a far more measured, calm voice, before turning unconcernedly back to his work, expecting that the conversation would end at that.

It didn't, as the screaming man in question then burst into his office, waving a jar in the air furiously. Some circular objects could be seen rolling about through the glass.

"Wishart." He said in a show of controlled fury, staring daggers at the boy. "Why. Are there eyes. In the microwave."

Crucis looked up boredly, but not after carefully placing his work to one side and slowly raising his green-tinted goggles into his mop of sticky-up dark hair. Through this intense show of boredom, the man's eyes goggled from his skull and his face's shade deepened from crimson to purple.  
Eventually, Crucis spoke.

"They are an experiment."

The man gave Crucis one long angry look, opened and shut his mouth like a fish, then slammed the jar of eyes onto his desk and left the room without a word.  
Angry as he was, he wasn't going to mess with a Wishart.

The Wishart family was renowned for many things. Most of them were violent. A family run by the head of Distict 2 security, Venus Wishart, the children were known by name across the district and each by different monikers. 14-year-old Ivory was the Womaniser. 16-year-old Feral was the Sadist. So on and so on.

But Crucis, despite being the oldest child in a family of six other children, wasn't known for savagery, or strength, or any of the similar qualities bestowed among the children of the dictator-like figure heading the Wishart family.

He was generally known as "that odd one".

He wasn't a fighter, as proven by many, many unsuccessful training hours in the Wishart household. He held no interest in the Hunger Games, unlike his sister Feral- he was the weakest of his family despite being the oldest. Even his youngest sister, 6 year old Saffra, carried a machete to school and threatened to "shank" her school bullies.

But again, nobody was going to mess with a Wishart. Even the young one.s After all, everyone knew what had happened to their father when he had refused to raise his children as a pseudo-army.  
The Wisharts didn't really talk about the circumstances of his death much. Suffice it to say that it was a horrible accident, that nobody would dare call anything else but a horrible accident.

But Crucis was that weak link in the Wishart army, and although Venus Wishart wanted obedience from her children at all times, there was a blind eye turned to Crucis' activities that didn't clash with family activities. He would escape to his sanctuary in the weapons manufacturing and design facilities, and after he had proven to be a genius with technology he had been given his own office- his liking of this small, private space could be seen by how oddly immaculate it was- for a disorganised person like he was, it was kept impossibly neat.

Crucis tired of soldering, placed the half-completed gun on top of an ever-increasing pile of electronics, and stood up to retrieve the jar of eyes.  
He wouldn't say where he had gotten them from, but they weren't from an animal.

He crossed around to the other end of his desk, set down the jar of eyes- positioned a gun at one end. His fingers tapped a small rhythm against the barrel as he lined the sights up with a single milky sphere in the jar.

"With glass, microwave testing with human eye-"

He straightened, dragged his green-tinted goggles back down in front of his eyes, trailed a wire down to an electrical socket. He hadn't bothered with wiring it to a plug; electrical shocks were a little habit he had grown to enjoy, in a way, and he liked to give himself little thrills every so often.

"In three, two-"

He gave up with a countdown as he realised its futility with only himself in the room- he jammed the wire into the electrical socket, watching the propped-up bulbous gun barrel start to heat up, whine, emit an ever-higher pitch as it got ready to-

_Bang_

Crucis pulled the wire from the socket as glass shards and eyes scattered themselves across his desk, a sizeable scorch mark left where the gun barrel had blown itself apart. He tapped the wire against his knuckles erratically.  
He would have to rewire that gun. Change a few components.

He made a few quick calculations in his head, then snatched up one of the now-displaced pens on his desk and scribbled something on his hand.

He would get these guns to stop blowing up eventually, he was sure.

Crucis was fairly trigger-happy. He enjoyed the feeling of holding the gun in his hand, aiming and firing- when he wasn't creating guns, he was shooting them, and when he had perfected a design, reworked it over and over until, like the pulse gun he had created months ago, he held in his hand a piece of work he was certain would work the way he wanted it to work every time-

Well, that was perfection.

He liked to be in control. With guns, with his office, with his own life. He controlled the first two- but his mother controlled that final part.

Maybe he would find a way to perfect that aspect of his life too.

He turned suddenly, train of thought angled onto another thing. He picked another gun up from his huge pile of electronics- this was his personal pulse gun, the original, that all others had been extrapolated from.

He kept it in perfect condition but made it look like it was a piece of unfinished junk. He liked it to be a private piece because then he had control of it.

He turned it over in his hands, admiring the handiwork. It had been his best design yet.

This was his control. This office, this gun, his designs.

It was as close to complete control as he would ever get in District 2.

Smoke and mirrors. That was the phrase, right?

* * *

Seneca stared into the smooth, perfect surface of the mirror, and behind the glassy surface Crane stared back.

He knew every year how dangerous his position was.

That was the price of power.

Seneca had once just been a tech guy. He had been where Lexus Valerian was now- head of technological research, working to revolutionise the Capitol and the Hunger Games.

He had done it a little too well, because here he was, Head Gamemaker, the second most prominent member of the political maelstrom that was Panem's ruling government.

Maelstrom in that nobody knew precisely how everything was going to happen but the President himself. Seneca, Demitri, all of the big players in this world- they were either willing puppets or reluctant puppets. The President was the sole puppeteer, and he alone knew what their movements were to be.

Seneca hated politics. He was a tech guy- you wouldn't ask Lexus Valerian to be President any more than you would ask him.

Not that either would ever become President. Seneca kept his suspicions to himself, but he reckoned Snow was going to keep presidency in the family after him; give the position to his granddaughter.  
But that was neither here nor there. Another speculation for many years in the future.

Seneca made a soft humming noise, if only to fill the silence in his opulent home with ambient noise. He let the tone resonate around him and fade as he stared into his glassy counterpart's eyes- a clear, natural brown. He had never changed them.

Most of the technicians and governmental workers preferred to keep themselves looking as natural as possible, save a few minor, easily changed details- Seneca had even wondered himself if it was for more shady reasons than occasionally not wanting to be noticed in the streets.  
Smoke and mirrors. Deception and intrigue. Keeping focus away from  
the true person beneath.  
Keeping focus away from the truth.

He was such an _idiot_. He suddenly swerved from the mirror, façade dropped, the true him showing beneath when nobody was watching.  
He was just tired.

Every day started in fear of what was to come- every night he slept restlessly, fears of the correction facility looming in his mind as he turned over each possible error he had made that day.

He wondered if those fears would ever be realised; and if they might be realised sooner than he hoped. Seneca wasn't keeping up with the President. Every mistake he made would build up, and build up, until finally the President would-

No. He couldn't even think about it. He looked into the mirror again, stared at it for a long time. He watched the blood return to his pale cheeks.

He walked away.

Something snapped.

He pivoted wildly, took three quick, enraged paces to the mirror, and-

_Crack_

He stared at his balled-up fist as blood trickled from the cuts left by the glass shards. He gaped in shock at his hand, then at the mirror.

Shattered to pieces.

He mused in his numb, fear-stricken mind that it was a nice metaphor for himself.


	10. Beginning and End

He placed himself down on the large, richly upholstered cushion, next to his parents. His younger twin sisters were quiet and unchallenging of his taking the more plush seat- they sat side by side on the carpet instead, hands trailing through each other's identical dye jobs as they stared intently at the screen.

Albin stared too.

Albin was sixteen years of age- the eldest of his siblings but still the weakest, having no twin and little body strength to draw upon. He was distant to most people, cocky and unsociable- but there was one time of the year when Albin felt truly at home.

The Hunger Games.

He loved watching it-probably far more than his parents, than his sisters, even. He was an obsessive; he watched it 24/7 when it was on and thrilled in being the one to know most about each and every tribute.

And he wasn't going to miss out on the reapings.

The television screen flicked briefly to the seal of Panem, playing an abbreviated version of the national anthem- the simulated orchestra was majestic, the tones sending chills through his spine. Albin watched the seal fade away into colour- and then a sweeping helicopter shot, showing the crowds in the square of District 5.

It had begun. Albin leant forward, eyes widening in excitement as the reapings begun.

The Quarter Quell was starting.

Although it should make sense to start with District 1, in actual fact they were second- the closest districts came first in clockwise formation. Directly to the right of the Capitol came District 5- as the power generators of Panem, they were situated directly opposite  
the Capitol so as to send electricity directly there. Then District 1, and then District 3, then District 2, then 6, and so on and so on- Albin prided himself on knowing the precise order.  
He wriggled excitedly on the sofa, waiting to see what would come of the first of the twelve reapings.

* * *

Jack was fiddling with the edges of his shirt irritably. Every so often, he'd sweep a hand backwards through his hair, catching loose strands from his ponytail and tucking them behind his ears.  
His eyes never left Fi.  
She had more slips in that reaping bowl than she could count, but yet she stood there, not fearing the reaping out loud, not hunching over and crying like so many of her peers. She was standing there, eyes locked on him, waiting for the escort to take a slip from the female's reaping ball and seal someone's fate.  
And in there, dozens of little slips with her name on them in beautiful cursive rested, waiting to spell her doom.  
No. He couldn't think like that. She had seemed to read his emotional state effortlessly, and it was distressing her silently- Fi was looking towards her younger brothers in the crowd with a mixture of fear and defiance. Jack flicked his eyes across the rows of boys in front of him, searching for his own family; and yes, there they were, David and Thomas, _god they're so young what if they were chosen_, and David was looking ahead defiantly, confidently, but Thomas was slumping in his posture and although Jack couldn't see his face the shaking in his younger brother's shoulders was enough to tell him that he was crying. Rose was there too, next to his parents, clinging to them, sniffling. Jack looked to the front. His grandmother sat there weakly next to the other Victors- but despite her frail appearance fire burned in her eyes as the old woman stared into the back of the escort's head. A new one this year, wearing a ridiculous long sleeved shirt-dress ensemble and stripes of green and teal lipstick. His grandmother wasn't even trying to hide her hatred of the Capitol at the moment, which filled Jack with a vague sense of pride. He fixated his view back on Fi- they smiled weakly at one another. Jack had already made his decision about the possibility of Fi being reaped- if it happened, then Jack would volunteer to be right beside her. They would be together. Jack would protect her to the last.

She was so beautiful.

A soft squeal of mechanics and a grainy tapping noise, and their attention was diverted to the platform. The escort was smiling giddily and bouncing on the tips of her heeled shoes.  
"Welcome, everybody, and Happy Hunger Games!" The escort said with an ecstatic voice. An enthusiastic one, Jack noted tiredly. They were always the worst for getting their tributes sponsors, his grandmother had said to him- Jack wondered if they only brought in these kinds of escorts to bring down morale even further. You knew you were doomed with an escort who was bouncing up and down.

"I'm Astraia Ryder, and I'm this year's escort for District 5!" She announced with a smile, waving her hand around like it was being electrocuted. Either an attempt at a joke or waving wasn't commonplace in the Capitol. Nobody said a word.

"-As ever, the lovely ladies first!" Ryder recovered, bouncing over to the reaping ball. Jack stole a glance at Fi, hamds fidgeting at an insane speed as his heart rate increased. He transferred his attention back to the escort as she poised herself behind the ball.  
She took a piece of paper.

"Resta Hurst!" She announced happily. Jack let out a short breath- horrible as it was to be celebrating, Fi was safe. He looked at his girlfriend lingeringly as Resta walked up to face her death sentence. The escort barrelled on regardless, practically over the moon at her job and her duties. Terrified faces in turn stared at her.

"And on to the boys now!" She trilled, almost bouncing on her insane heels to the second, glass bowl. Jack kept his eyes firmly set on his younger brothers, fingers practically tearing at the fabric of his shirt sleeve now.

Green-painted fingers removed the small strip of paper from the bowl.

And it was in that moment that his life fell apart.

"Jack Parker!"

Blood drained from his face. Everything sounded like it was underwater- the screams of his brothers, his parents; it was all a long, long way away.

_Jack Parker_.

A cry escaped Fi's throat, and his girlfriend bodily flung herself into the aisle, demanding to volunteer. _No, that's not how it works, Fi, I'm sorry I'm so so sorry  
_  
Jack slowly walked forward, quietly, watching as if in a dream as Peacekeepers wrestled back a hysteric Fiona. His brothers were sobbing, his parents were screaming- and above it all stood his frail grandmother, eyes filled with tears, shaking her head and murmuring "no", over and over.

He had reached the stage before he knew he was there.

He was going to die.

He watched limply, mouth hanging open, as he stared across the expanse of the District 5 square. Faces he knew. Faces he didn't. Some, like his brothers, like Fiona, contorted in the throes of horrible, wrenching sounds of sobs- they weren't quiet, dainty sounds, like the whining of a child, but ugly sounds from the depths of misery, the sounds of nightmare made flesh. Others in a kind of horrified relief, like he had been, relief at the horrors being paraded in front of him not being horrors they had to live through.  
The immensity of what had just happened was in equal parts too big to comprehend and at the same time far, far too simple.  
He was going to his death.

As Jack slowly turned to blankly watch the Captolian place a microphone underneath Resta's mouth, he watched their expressions. He was almost disjointed from it all. This wasn't happening to him. He was just watching it on a television was all.  
Just another show. This wasn't real. Just another show. Just look at them behind the screen.

Resta was shaking but forcing out sentences somehow, her eyes brimming with tears but still shining with a strange defiance Jack couldn't place. Her mouth was moving but the words were soundless, the distorted space of Jack's mind unable to process much.

The escort looked flustered. Like she hadn't expected this. Flustered was perhaps the wrong word- disturbed might be a better one. Behind the layers of makeup and striped lipstick, her hands were shaking, her eyes wide, mouth moving soundlessly.  
Mouth moving soundlessly to him.

He watched dumbly, words escaping him, as she continued to speak to him, her expression turning from confusion to vague panic. Waxy, striped lips turned downward in a confused frown, and she turned away from him.

Jack said nothing, walking slowly and jerkily alongside Resta as they were walked to the building by the edge of the stage.

Behind him, the only sound reaching his ears, the horrifying screams of his family continued.

_I am going to die._

* * *

Resta Hurst and Jack Parker. Albin stared as a girl was wrestled back from Jack's procession to the front- then he giggled slightly. Admirers had already started to surround the poor guy, no longer he looked shell-shocked.

The crying boys put him off a bit, though- he could already figure out they must be his brothers, and Albin had never been one for dealing with emotional situations. He shifted uncomfortably until the cameras cut back to the two tributes. Jack, built tall and fairly muscled, with long dark hair in- urgh, Albin thought disapprovingly, a ponytail. The Capitolian teenager dragged a hand back self-consciously through his dark green spikes. Resta, on the other hand, was short and kind of dumpy, with wide shoulders and a strong frame that seemed to sit strangely on a female figure. Albin screwed up his face slightly in disapproval, making mental notes of the first two tributes in District 5 as the Panem seal flashed up again, fading to reveal the far cleaner, larger square of District 1.

Well, maybe they would be interesting to watch fight.

* * *

**Jack Parker- LadyDunla**

**Resta Hurst is self-generated.**


	11. Bliss in Ignorance

Albin smiled to himself as a very recognisable square came up on the screen-District 1 had always been his favourite, and unless he was really taken by another tribute he always rooted for the 1 pairs. Maybe it was because they appeared more civilised than other districts? Who knew. He just liked them.

He wriggled comfortably into the sofa cushions, watching for the next two tributes.

* * *

Chanel wasn't sure about this year.

It used to be that everyone in District 1 volunteered for the Hunger Games. They adored the Capitol, and were always elated to put themselves up for the contest. People would be climbing over each other to get to the podium and announce themselves as tribute- it was still rife when Chanel was younger. She had not-so-privately referred to it as "idiots volunteering to die".

Indeed that was what happened- even the better prepared tributes typically died when faced with the far stronger, fiercer tributes of 2 and 4, and even the most idiotic of District 1's group began to shy away from volunteering. Nowadays they were more concerned with makeup, jewellery and watching the games rather than participating.

Chanel had no interest in makeup and watching the games- but that didn't mean she had any intention of volunteering. Volunteering would mean death, and Chanel was far too comfortable in her life to give it up now.

But every so often there would be one suicidal crazy who wanted to volunteer, and this year there was one undeniable crazy. Sheen Astara. He was huge, bulky and intimidating- a man of very few words and fewer brain cells. Like Chanel, he had never taken to the District 1 look of paling makeup and jewellery and had few friends- but instead of Chanel's method of passive-aggressive annoying all the people who mutually disliked her, Sheen just beat people up. He had recieved numerous warnings from school staff (on the few days Sheen bothered to come in) for aggressive behaviour, but Sheen didn't have enough brainpower to really process these warnings, and just continued on with what he was (brutally) doing.

So Sheen seemed like a certain for volunteering this year- he was in his last year of reapings, so it would be a surprise if he didn't volunteer at his physical prime. Chanel still had two reapings, including this one, to go- so she wasn't sure about the girls a year older than her. But nobody struck her as a homicidal crazy, so she reckoned that there was going to be one volunteer, one reaped. She was glad there was going to be at least one volunteer this year- Chanel hated watching the reaped cry. It summoned up the child inside of her, the portion of her mind that wanted to scream and cry and yell at the pure, undiluted despair that would flit across the tribute's face.

Everyone was contented in District 1, happily blinkered, willing to just concentrate on makeup and fashion and meaningless gossip.  
But for a single day of the year.

There was a reason District 1 distracted themselves with glittering objects, with makeup, with fripperies. They needed the distraction to live with the horrors of this single day.

Chanel relied on distractions of her own. She stared longingly in the direction of the district boundaries, wishing to get back to the solitude of the forest, of her home.

A young man with strangely tinted skin and bright blue hair jumped up to the podium in front of her. He had a name, but Chanel forgot it every year. She didn't really care about his name so it never really bothered her.

"Hello District One!" He sing-songed, unheeding or uncaring of the faintly terrified silence that proceeded. "Happy 75th Hunger Games to you all-" He all but skipped over to the first reaping ball, his surgically changed face moving in what Chanel cynically supposed was a smile. "-Shall we begin? Ladies first, as always!"

The mockery of a smile never left his face as he read out the slip.

But the words that he sang sounded endlessly bitter to Chanel, like every syllable was meant to destroy her very being, was meant to shred every nerve and reduce her to nothing more than a pathetic, weeping child.

"Chanel Vienna!"

Chanel Vienna. Her name sounded to her at once a death sentence and a damnation.

_Chanel Vienna._

Even as the words reverberated through the air, Chanel stood there, face slack, eyes dimmed, unbelieving and unwilling to believe. Around, murmurs and vicious muttering started up- how the strange, angry girl was going to be a tribute.

And Chanel finally registered what the words meant for her.  
The world rushed back to place.

She drew herself up, held a sneer on her face in defiance, and sauntered forward to the podium, ignoring everyone around her.

If she looked back she might break.

She ignored the host, instead turning to face the square. She let the silence surround her- she wasn't here, not really. Her parents weren't crying silently to her right. She was in the forest, surrounded by iridescent colour, life and beauty, nature, silent peaceful beautiful nature. Her face went blank and she let her eyes gloss over.

The rest she didn't truly remember, but she remembered the one tear that escaped her otherwise defiant expression.

* * *

Albin didn't much like Chanel Vienna. She was an enigma, really. Albin didn't like enigmas. She had a constant sneer on her face, curiously defiant, but at the same time was crying. She had ignored everyone, cold and distant, but if you were to look into the depths of her eyes you could see sadness.

Albin shook his head. He was thinking too much again. People weren't that complex, she was just distant. Distant Chanel. There. Descriptor and name. Easy to remember.

Sheen Astara seemed more typical. He was a winner. Strong and capable and- well, and brutal. In volunteering he had almost broken the reaped kid's arm. Albin was absently reminded of the many verbal abuses the bullies at his school had inflicted upon him, and he mentally shied away from this memory, instead focusing on Sheen and Chanel.

The two District 1 tributes. Albin wriggled further into the sofa cushions, his safe bubble of reapings having been invaded by unpleasant memories.

Maybe District 3 would be better.

* * *

**Sheen Astara is self-generated.**

**Chanel Vienna created by MidnightRaven323.**

**This summer is my dedicated time to create a buffer, so short and infrequent chapters should be a thing of the past now I have my exams done for this year.**


End file.
